The Ellie Hardwick Mysteries

by Barbara Cleverly

  He nodded towards the bell tower and to an ordered pile of pale-gleaming fragments rising from which I could make out a single white hand pointing forlornly heaven-wards.

  I had looked calmly enough at the dead girl but, unaccountably, the sight of the dismembered stone limbs made me shudder.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I muttered and for a moment it seemed horribly likely.

  ‘No you’re not!’ he said. ‘Have a thought for the Suffolk Constabulary! They’ll have quite enough bodily fluids to put under their microscopes without being distracted by extraneous and irrelevant contributions from the visiting architect. Pull yourself together, Miss . . . er . . .!’

  He’d said it again! No one had told me to pull myself together since primary school. I breathed deeply, beginning sincerely to dislike Edward Hartest.

  ‘Ellie, call me Ellie,’ I said impatiently.

  ‘Fine. And you might as well call me Edward. Now look here, Ellie, I want you to note a few things before the police get here. I’m certain that we can rely on them to use the full range of their forensic techniques but . . .’

  ‘I know what you’re getting at. Not straightforward is it? It’s as though someone’s left a challenge. If it weren’t such a gruesome thought I might even say—someone’s playing a game.’

  ‘Yes, and I have a feeling I may know the identity of this joker! Do you see, over there, just below the scrolled edge—don’t touch it for God’s sake!—there’s a smudge.’

  ‘A finger print,’ I said firmly. ‘In blood!’

  My fingers may have strayed unconsciously to my camera because he looked down at me and glowered. ‘Don’t even think of it!’ he said repressively. He paused, eyeing my Nikon. ‘You haven’t already, have you? I’m afraid I must insist you hand over the film.’

  ‘Film?’

  ‘You know what I mean!’ He waved an imperious hand at my camera. ‘Do whatever you have to do to disarm that contraption.’

  The authoritative voice was one which was used to being obeyed.

  ‘Give me one good reason why I should!’

  ‘I’ll give you two. You could sell the negative of this scene to the gutter press for thousands and the family can do without the publicity. Secondly, if you don’t I shall take it out anyway and, clumsy as I am with modern equipment, I might well do your toy irreparable damage.’

  With a display of truculence, I slowly removed the memory card and handed it over.

  ‘What on earth’s this?’

  ‘It’s what we use instead of film in the twenty-first century. There’s nothing on there but exterior shots of Mendlesett . . . crumbling buttresses and worm-eaten woodwork. Only of value to me. Still, if it’ll keep your hands off my equipment, the sacrifice is worth it.’

  We looked at each other in silence for a moment until outside in the real world, one by one, cars crunched to a halt.

  * * *

  A Detective Inspector Jennings accompanied by a detective sergeant and a uniformed officer marched aggressively in through the door and up the aisle. He made his way towards us, holding up his credentials for our inspection, unnecessarily it seemed as The Hon Edward greeted him with an easy, ‘Oh, hallo there, Richard!’

  After briefly establishing who I was and my role in the discovery of the body, the inspector courteously invited us to get out of the church by the fastest route and to avoid treading again on the carpet. I noticed that he spoke to Edward Hartest formally but with an underlying deference and I remembered—not only Honourable but also J.P.—Justice of the Peace, a local magistrate. This heir of an ancient family moved smoothly into action and, replying with just the right blend of formality and charm, informed the Inspector that we would leave the scene of crime clear for the investigating officers and go to await his questions in the comfort of the library at Tilbrook Hall where he trusted Richard would be able to join us later for coffee. Edward picked up my briefcase, put a chivalrous arm around my shoulders and led me out into the sunshine.

  Through the thin cotton of my overalls I could feel the solicitous arm shaking perceptibly.

  * * *

  As we left, uniformed policemen were cordoning off the churchyard with plastic tape, one firmly standing his ground and denying access to an indignant, weather-beaten lady. ‘Young man, kindly move aside. I always do the flowers on a Wednesday!’

  ‘But not this Wednesday, I’m afraid, madam,’ I heard him say cheerfully. ‘Church closed to the public until further notice.’

  A middle-aged figure, bespectacled and distinguished, climbed out of his Volvo, an assistant carrying his medical bag. The pathologist? ‘Got a little local difficulty I hear, Edward?’ he said, managing to sound both amused and concerned.

  ‘Local, Gordon, but I’ m not so sure about little,’ said Edward.

  ‘Am I the only outsider here?’ I wondered resentfully.

  * * *

  The Hall was only five minutes walk from the church. A gable end was visible above the surrounding trees and the five shafted cluster of a chimney stack broke the skyline. Fifteenth century was my first impression. A fine house. A gracious and welcoming house. I was shown into the library and a tray of coffee was placed at my elbow while Edward went off to break the news of the death to his son Rupert, still abed, according to the housekeeper, and to his father, the current Lord Brancaster, up but feeling poorly.

  I strolled around the library, admiring the ranks of leather-bound books, but finding not one I was tempted to take down and read. Fresh flowers in silver vases dotted the tables and a log fire smouldered in the grate of the stately fireplace. The latest model computer, perched almost apologetically on a table at the far side of the room was the only concession to the twenty-first century.

  I passed the time taking from my briefcase the file on Tilbrook Church. Meticulously kept, the notes went back for thirty years. The fabric was in first class condition scrupulously maintained by the Hartest family. The damage to Aliénore had been caused by an overzealous Victorian insertion of iron cramps and I had been called in to advise on the restoration. Intrigued to see the original appearance of the tomb I spread out on the library table a set of black and white photographs we kept as a record in the file.

  I looked and looked again at the pictures of the original Aliénore, intrigued and mystified. I compared them with the startling scene I had just witnessed and, unbelieving, I began to arrive at a shocking conclusion. And then there was the Latin inscription running round the tomb. This reinforced my disturbing theory. The words were an easily translatable, common enough formula until I got to the last word.

  What I saw written there was a motive for murder. And it had been there, unnoticed, for nearly six hundred years.

  * * *

  I decided it would be a good idea to scramble out of my unglamorous overalls though the jeans and yellow T shirt this manoeuvre revealed were hardly more appropriate to the leather bindings, the gilded titles and the polished oak of these gracious surroundings. Even so, I was more suitably dressed than the young man who now staggered in through the doorway. Rupert Hartest looked every inch the bereaved fiancé. Stunned, inarticulate, dressed in a white bathrobe, his black hair flopping unbrushed and still damp from his shower, he stood and stared at me.

  He was very good looking in a brooding dark way and very young. I guessed that he was probably in his mid twenties and a year or two younger than me. He joined me at the table and listened in silent horror to the story I had to tell him, dabbing his eyes with the trailing end of his bathrobe. When I fell silent he sniffed, and whispered gruffly, ‘Oh, Taro! Consistent to the last! You silly little trollop!’ He paused for a moment, smiled a crooked smile and added, ‘But what an exit!’

  Deeply puzzled, I pretended not to have heard and said, ‘Your father thinks he knows who’s responsible . . .’

  ‘Theo Tindall,’ he said bitterly, ‘that’s who he’s got in his sights. The photographer. Taro’s manager, friend, ex-partner and purveyor of strange s
ubstances to Taro and others—including myself.’ He shook his head as though he could shake out memories. ‘Hateful man! He was staying with us too, just for the week—at Taro’s invitation of course. Perhaps I don’t need to say that he’s disappeared. Room’s empty though his things are still lying around all over the floor. Mrs. Rose, our housekeeper, says he and Taro went out together in his car early this morning at about seven o’clock.’

  I told him about the bloody finger print on the tomb.

  His relief was obvious. ‘Well, they’ll nail him then, no problem.’ He paused for a moment, thoughtful, and then added, ‘Funny though . . . what possible motive could there have been? He had every reason to keep Taro in good health. He made a lot of money out of her. He discovered her and flogged her talents to the media. Took a large cut of the proceeds. He didn’t seem to resent her getting engaged to me—he introduced us in fact and with all the publicity she could whip up over the society wedding he, they, stood to make even more. Odd, that . . .’

  The scene in the church was beginning to make sense in the context Rupert was setting out. The whole thing had been staged for a photographer’s shoot. No wonder my own finger had twitched on the shutter! The display had been devised for exactly that reaction.

  I decided to confide in him. ‘Look, Rupert, would it be too distressing if I were to show you a photograph I took at the scene? The shot that this Theo had so carefully staged? Your father doesn’t know I took it, by the way. He expressly told me not to.’

  ‘I can imagine why! But, yes, Ellie, it would be distressing . . . though I think I ought to see it if you have it handy.’

  I took the card from my pocket, a cable from my briefcase and offered up my camera. I looked doubtfully at the computer and back at Rupert.

  ‘I can manage,’ he said. ‘Allow me.’

  In a few swift gestures he had transferred the image to his computer screen.

  He studied the scene with stony face, running a delicate forefinger over the spilling golden hair on the screen. I fetched one of the black and white photos of the original tomb figures and we compared the two. The likeness was startling. Rupert made me go over again the details of the appearance of the corpse. ‘The dagger,’ he said finally, pointing, ‘There’s a real one in a trophy of arms in the drawing room, the twin of this. I looked in before I came to the library. It’s missing. A misericorde, you’re right. And I bet if I looked in the chest on the landing I’d find that a long white nightgown and a pair of white satin ballet shoes have gone missing too.’

  ‘But do you think she changed into them willingly? Was Taro part of the impersonation, do you think?’

  ‘Certain of it! Just the sort of off-beat humour she went in for. Bet it was all her idea. I can imagine what they were both up to! What a laugh! Dress up as the first Lady Brancaster and pose, with a lot of bosom showing of course, on the family tomb which somebody has conveniently cleared for them. Theo snaps away and flogs the result to . . . oh, any one of a hundred papers. You can imagine the headlines! Blast them!’

  ‘But wouldn’t she have been a bit more circumspect . . . I mean . . . have held off from offending the ancient family she was about to marry into? Surely?’

  Rupert snorted. ‘She had no respect for that sort of thing. She refused to use or acknowledge Grandpa’s title. She was the type who cheer when hereditary peers are kicked out of the House of Lords. I’ve always thought it was Taro and her sarcastic tongue that gave Grandfather his heart attack.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  He grimaced at the memory. ‘It happened at her first dinner here. She said something deliberately calculated to get up Grandfather’s nose and then announced that she and I were engaged to be married and he’d better get used to hearing her opinions. She declared that she’d make every effort to talk me out of taking up the title when the time came. Who on earth cared about such things these days? And even if I did take it up she’d make sure any children we had were daughters so it would die out. Bluffing, of course, but the old chap’s heard of designer babies and DNA and all that and I think he really believed she could do it. Poor old bloke sent for his doctor and went to his room. He hasn’t come downstairs since. Doc says he’s got a heart condition and has to avoid stress. He’s over eighty now. Seems a bit strange in these days perhaps,’ Rupert looked at me, calculating, wondering whether he need explain, ‘but he really is obsessed by—lost in—family history. Heraldry, pedigrees . . . His family motto . . . our family motto . . . is Who dies, if Hartest live!’

  I must have looked bewildered because with an apologetic smile he said, ‘I suppose it means: To hell with everyone else! Who cares—so long as the Hartests survive. Nice sentiment!’

  Rupert’s eye flicked to a photograph on the mantelpiece and I went over to look at it. Three generations of the Hartest men were lined up on the lawn, smiling at the camera.

  ‘There you see, until the last few weeks Grandpa was always fighting fit—literally fighting fit! He was a commando and kept himself in shape. Tried to teach me and Dad all his skills. More successful with Dad—he was in the Coldstream.’

  ‘Are you a soldier too?’

  ‘I was for about eighteen months. Tried it for Grandpa’s sake. Went through the motions. University then Sandhurst. I didn’t impress them with my war-like spirit, I’m afraid. I got out. It wasn’t for me. I’m more the arty type like my mother was. She died five years ago.’

  ‘And in spite of all Taro had done, you were still prepared to go ahead with the marriage?’ I couldn’t hide my incredulity and disapproval.

  His face softened. ‘You never knew her, did you? It’s hard for those who didn’t know her to understand. She was magic . . . well, she magicked me anyway. She was a bit mad, ruthless even and she could be a ferocious little bitch (I knew it). But the magic made all that of no concern. Made! Christ! It continues to work! She’s gone—but I can’t believe it.

  ‘I loved her. And there was another reason. She was pregnant. Not very, but enough to make us name an earlyish date.’ He sighed. ‘No illegitimate children were ever acknowledged in the Hartest family for six hundred years. Not going to start now, though Taro wouldn’t have cared I suppose.’

  He fell silent, deep in thought, and then he began to fidget. ‘Look, Dad’ll be down soon and he won’t be amused to see me still in my bathrobe. He thinks I’m pretty dissolute . . . I’ll just go upstairs and get kitted out. Stay here, I won’t be a minute. Oh, and better turn that computer off.’

  I was left alone but for the company of a Jacobean Hartest whose harsh white face under a black periwig stared down at me watchful, austere and calculating from its gilded frame. I felt a sadness so oppressive that I put my head in my hands and tried to force back tears. Two innocent lives had been lost on that marble slab this morning. The girl and her unborn child were unknown to me but I mourned them. And, underlying the sorrow, was a barely understood suspicion of the Hartest men and their motives. I looked at my watch and wondered how much longer I would have to wait here. I found I really didn’t want to have any further dealings with this family. Three generations of trained killers were loose in this house and one of them was ruthless enough to have got rid of an inconvenient little trollop. I looked again at the photograph of the table tomb, at the frozen features and flowing hair of the lovely Aliénore and I understood that an ancient tragedy had sent its echo on through the centuries to be replayed in front of my eyes this spring morning.

  * * *

  How soon could I get away from this place? I listened anxiously for the sound of a police car. My thoughts were redirected by Rupert. He slipped back into the room, smelling of herbs and wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a white tee shirt. He tapped a finger on one of the photographs of the Lady Aliénore.

  ‘Always puzzled me this,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent hours in church on Sundays looking, enchanted, at this figure and there’s something about her I’ve never understood. Dad says you’re an art historian? Well, tell me, Elli
e,’ he indicated the flowing hairstyle of the stone image, ‘in all the other table tombs I’ve seen the ladies have their hair gathered up into a head dress . . . Why is this one different?’

  Should I tell him? Would he want to hear? I’ve never been able to keep knowledge to myself. ‘That’s the key to the whole mystery, Rupert,’ I said. He looked genuinely at a loss so I went on, ‘In these times it was the fashion for women to have their hair dressed and caught up in concealing coifs . . . if you were a respectable, married woman that is.’

  ‘But Aliénore was all that! What are you trying to say?’

  ‘That in those days this sumptuous spread of tresses was seen as the outward badge—the emblem if you like—of a common prostitute. Whoever put this here knew it and wanted succeeding generations to know it too. Sir John was announcing this to the world in sculpture. Vilifying his wife for eternity. An obscure but neat way of getting his own back for what he saw as his wife’s shortcomings.’

  ‘Interesting theory but a bit thin, I think. Impossible to read that much into a hairstyle!’

  ‘Perhaps, but there’s something else. Look here . . . and here . . .’ I pointed to the inscription which ran around the sides of the tomb. ‘Know any Latin, Rupert?’

  ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘This at any rate—I’ve known it for years.’ He started to translate the lines about Sir John, his date of death and age at death.

  ‘It’s the short statement about Aliénore that’s important,’ I said.

  ‘Easy,’ said Rupert. ‘Hic iacet Alienora Iohannis Hartestis uxor. That means Here Lies Aliénore, wife of John Hartest.’

  ‘But that’s not the end of the sentence. My firm is nothing if not thorough and back in the past someone must have thought he was not doing his job properly if he failed to check out the condition of the fourth side of the tomb.’