Charles was out on a job when we got back and we settled down with the dusty ledger from five years earlier which recorded the hours spent by each architect on each of his jobs. I pointed out Byam’s record. It seemed he had quite a full programme. Ongoing repairs at five churches besides the quinquennial on All Souls. He had, typically, spent half a day at each, usually mornings. His afternoons had been spent on domestic projects: he’d been working on extensions to two private houses. In the record, one was named as ‘Moat Farm Extns.’ the other ‘The Limes Extns.’ Both were common names hereabouts.
‘Out of county contractors, I see, on both jobs so no use asking Ben for his insights,’ said Richard.
I remembered the cutting comment Charles had made about the ladies who ordered extensions and I wondered. I shared my suspicions with Richard.
‘Names,’ he said. ‘How do we correlate these jobs with names of clients?’
‘We look in the back. That’s where Liz wrote down the accounts and payments before it all went on computer.’
We tracked down the two extension jobs and looked at the names of the clients.
‘But isn’t this . . .?’ Richard started to say, recognising one of them. ‘Oh, Good Lord! You don’t imagine . . .? Surely not . . .?’
I stared at the page for a moment, taking in the meaning of the scene we had uncovered and, in an unthinking gesture of appalled rejection, I slammed the ledger shut.
‘We can’t leave it there,’ said Richard. ‘However much you might want to. But at the moment, all we’ve got is the suspicion of a scenario that could possibly have led to murder. It’s not much. How can we find out more without committing ourselves?’
‘I think I know how. Look at the dates. The work was started a year before Byam died. This lady was spinning it out? “While you’re here, Byam, you might as well look at . . . ” We get a lot of that. Can you imagine? It would have been under way by Christmas six years ago. I’ll get the album.’
Every year Charles threw a party in mid-December for staff and clients and anyone who’d been involved with the firm in the past year. He enjoyed going around photographing the junketing and faithfully stuck his shots in an album. It was well-thumbed. I leafed back to the Christmas in question. Byam’s last. Faces, familiar and unfamiliar, smiled happily or drunkenly at the camera.
‘Look at this one, Ellie,’ Richard murmured. ‘Says it all really, don’t you think?’
Byam was standing with his arm around a dark and flamboyantly good-looking woman. He was grinning at the photographer and waving a glass around. The woman was paying no attention to the man behind the camera; she only had eyes for Byam. I was a stranger to both of them but the relationship was clear. It seemed to be clear also to the man standing to the right of the pair, some feet away. He was not smiling. Head lowered, he was showing all the aggression and pent-up anger of a tormented bull. An anger directed straight at the unconcerned Byam.
Richard put a hand down the centre of the photograph, covering up the partying crowd in the background and concealing all but the three main players. The effect was astonishing. Revealed was a crime about to happen. ‘Murderer, victim and motive, would you say? I think Byam extended himself a little too far on this occasion,’ said Richard. ‘Husband sees his wife the victim of a serial cuckolder . . . perhaps she’s threatened to leave him and go off with the glamorous architect . . . so what does he do? Makes an appointment with the scallywag in a remote place and engineers his disappearance.’
‘It didn’t work, you know,’ I added slowly. ‘All in vain. The lady left her husband anyway, shortly after. He lives by himself.’
‘A tragedy for all of them then. Makes you want to just slam the trapdoor back and cover the whole thing over,’ said Richard surprisingly.
We sat together in silence, each assessing the evidence, hunting for a flaw, neither of us ready to take the next step. ‘Oh, who’s this?’ said Richard, annoyed. ‘Someone’s just drawn up in a van. You’ve got a visitor.’
‘It’s Ben. You met him yesterday morning. I’m sure he can shed some light on this,’ I said. ‘Want me to leave?’
‘You just stay put!’
Ben came striding in with his usual sunny confidence and stopped as he took in the books and the album open in front of us. Richard rose to his feet.
‘Ah! The Christmas party book,’ Ben said and he sat down in Richard’s vacated chair to look at the photographs. ‘You’ll have figured it out then?’ he added prosaically. His calloused forefinger gently traced the face of the dark-haired girl. ‘You never met her, Ellie. Rachel. She was always too good for me. I knew that.’ He swallowed and growled, ‘She deserved better, but not him. No, never him! I couldn’t stand by and watch her break her heart over that no-good poser. If he’d loved her back I don’t think I’d have bothered.’
Richard stood uncertainly by. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
‘You rang and arranged to meet him at the tower, Ben? Mentioning some problem with the bats?’ I suggested. ‘The contractor,’ I explained for Richard’s benefit. ‘Just about the only person in the world the architect would have agreed to see at that late hour at the end of a job. You got one of your blokes to drop you off and after you’d . . . afterwards . . . you drove off in Byam’s car.’
‘Story came out that he’d gone off to Spain. Broke my Rachel’s heart. She didn’t blame me. Why would she?—I never let on. But she pined for him. Never laughed again. Not like that.’ He looked again with pain at the photograph. ‘Nothing I could do. Seemed I’d killed her as well, in a way. She packed her bags and went off.’
Seeing Richard’s shoulders tense he added wryly, ‘Oh, nothing sinister! You’ll find her at her mother’s in Stowmarket. Well, shall we go, then? I always expected it would come out. But I reckoned I had five years. Five years to try to get her back. No chance now.’
He turned to me, tears glazing his eyes. ‘Wouldn’t be sorry to hear that damned church had been demolished. Was looking forward to swinging a half-ton ball at it myself! Let me know, Ellie, would you, when you’ve done the deed?’
A BLACK TIE AFFAIR
An Ellie Hardwick, Architect, story.
‘Go on! You’re ’aving a larf, Ellie! Evening suit? Me? Sorry, love. Look—if you wouldn’t mind making that smart-casual, there’s a bash on in town we could . . .’
I grunted with irritation and hung up as soon as I politely could. I crossed Jon Sanderson off my list. And his was the last name. My boss looked up from the elevation he was sketching and grinned at me across the office.
‘Bad luck Ellie! What’s the matter with the young men of the East of England? You can’t tempt a single one of them to escort you to the social gathering of the season? They must be nuts!’
‘Not a man under forty owns a black tie and dinner jacket any more. That’s the matter. They’ve all given them away to Oxfam.’ I waved an embossed invitation card at him and read:
Lord and Lady Redmayne request the
pleasure of the company of
Eleanor Hardwick
to celebrate with them their first year in
residence at Hallowes Hall.
‘So far so good, but then it says along the bottom: Dinner and dancing. Black tie. And I’m obviously not expected to turn up alone because there’s a note from Alicia, paper-clipped to the card:
‘Dear Ellie, Do so hope you can come and please bring the gentleman of your choice.’
‘Well, that’s not necessarily the same as a choice gentleman,’ Charles quibbled. ‘You’ll have to spread your net wider and not be so fussy,’ he added. ‘And think of the firm. You did a splendid job on that old ruin of a house. The kitchen you designed is the most glamorous in Suffolk and there’ll be hundreds of envious women there asking how it was done. Alicia’s showing off the house but she’s also showing off her architect. Go! And take some of our business cards with you. Leave them discreetly about the place. Like, on the kitchen table.’
&nb
sp; I shuddered.
‘That’s an order not a suggestion. Only sorry I can’t manage it myself. Now who can we think of? What about old Hamish Peabody—he can still cut a rug and his last procedure was a roaring success, they say.’
I wasn’t listening. I was hunting glumly through my directory.
‘Got it!’ Charles shouted in triumph. ‘Just the bloke! Young, handsome, energetic, polished . . . well, fairly polished . . . and in his line of work he’s be bound to have some fancy suiting!’
‘Johnny Depp’s tied up that weekend,’ I muttered.
‘No, no! I’m talking about that police inspector who keeps hauling you in and out of trouble. What’s his name . . .? Richard Something. Or was it Something Richard? Very traditional lot, the Filth. They have black tie do’s all the time. Bet he’s got just the thing.’
‘Detective Inspector Richard Jennings?’ I gave a grating laugh. ‘We never managed to get it together, Charles, if you know what I mean. Both busy people, demanding bosses, bleepers calling us back to the office just as things get interesting. Haven’t seen him for six months. Fast-Track-Man that he was, he’s probably been promoted to the Met. by now. Still . . . good dancer and quite a charmer . . . I’ll give it a go. You’re not to interrupt.’
‘Hello . . . is that Richard? Ellie Hardwick here.’
‘Ellie? Oh, Ellie!’
I rushed on, embarrassed that he quite obviously had not been sitting by the phone expecting to hear from me for the last few months. ‘Look, I was wondering if you owned a dinner suit and if you wouldn’t mind putting it on to escort me to a glamorous event the Saturday after next? Pink champagne, jazz band, the cream of the county there . . .’
‘I’ll stop you right there and say—no, sorry, I have no such garment in my wardrobe.’
I must have sighed into the phone. He went on: ‘Is there a problem? Ellie? Is it important? Where is this event?’
‘Hallowes Hall. The Redmaynes are celebrating a year’s residence and I was to be paraded as their architect.’
There was a silence as he absorbed this, then: ‘Hallowes Hall? This is the newly created peer of the realm—Lord Redmayne of Deben or some such—we’re talking about, is it?’
‘That one. Services to inner city regeneration and all that.’
‘Huh! It used to be called property development in my day. Mmm. And you know these people well? I had no idea.’
‘I only know them in a professional capacity but, as an architect, you do discover some intimate details—which I never disclose so don’t ask.’
‘Listen—my father has four evening outfits . . .’
‘Four?’
‘He never throws anything away and as his size increases he adds to his stock. And lends them out to me in emergencies. I’ve reached his size 2. Okay, Ellie, I’ll borrow it and turn up in accordance with time and place you specify. Send me an e-mail. Schedule permitting, of course. You know what it’s like.’
‘You’ll come? Great! But look, Richard, just in case you’re called out at the last minute—book your father in for me would you? I’ll be happy with a size four!’
‘Not on your life!’ I was reassured to hear his familiar chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t trust the old rogue within a hundred yards of you!’
* * *
I was more than content, I felt a stirring of excited anticipation as I glanced at my escort, guiding his old Saab skilfully down the rutted track between the cornfields towards the sound of jazzy music and laughter of a party well under way at the Hall ahead of us. DCI Jennings, done up in his number 2 outfit and smelling alluringly of something expensive and woody, was reassuringly correct.
‘Don’t worry, Ellie,’ he said, catching an appraising glance, ‘I won’t let you down. You won’t hear a clank of handcuffs coming from my back pocket and I won’t put on my robot-copper’s voice.’
He slowed to take in the long, low lines of the refurbished house and gave an appreciative whistle.
‘Fifteenth century,’ I told him. ‘It’s got the lot—king-posts in the roof, screens arches, panelled doors, even a priest’s hole.’ I looked at the steeply pitched roof with its gently undulating coverlet of plain tiles ranging in colour from a red so dark as to be almost black, through buff to white where the lime-torching on the underside showed through. ‘So glad I managed to persuade Ronald not to strip the roof and re-tile. Those beauties are good for a few more years yet.’
The long front was plastered and colour-washed to a burnt orange, dark under the eaves, fading away to nothing at the brick plinth which ran round the house. As we watched, the setting sun, still undefeated on this late June evening, caught the leaded panes and sent back a dazzle of golden light. A double line of stout candles of medieval size wavering within their glass holders welcomed guests across the vast lawn to the marquee from where the sounds of jollity were coming.
Welcoming also and attentive was the pair of uniformed valets who took the car keys, exchanging masculine pleasantries with Jennings, and we set off across the grass towards the distant figures of Ronald and Alicia, standing ready to greet the last few guests. Richard, with an old-fashioned gesture took my arm and put it through his and, in my high heels, I found I was glad of the support.
Squeals of recognition, tuberose-scented air-kisses and manly hand-shakes welcomed us to the party and I was amused to see the interested look the dark-haired and willowy Alicia cast at the inspector. Amused also to hear him introduce himself to their host. ‘How do you do, sir? Richard Jennings. Criminologist. Cambridge.’
‘Oh, I say! D’you hear that, Alicia? A Cambridge academic. Another one! There’s a professor of something or other poking about the place somewhere already . . . perhaps you know each other?’
‘Medieval history,’ Alicia hissed, suddenly witch-like in her intensity. ‘Marcus is a historian. He’s inspecting our cock’s head hinges.’
Ronald rolled his eyes. ‘Well, there you are,’ he said happily. ‘My good wife’s latest enthusiasm! Cocks heads!’ He added with a leer: ‘Hinged or otherwise. And it’s you I blame, Ellie, for getting her going. She’s never at home these days—forever off on some historical workshop or tracking some luckless ancestor back through the rotting branches of her family tree. You must meet this chap, Marcus. If you can find him. Probably burrowed into the woodwork by now. Pink champagne? For you both? Or is the architect driving? Oh, before you move off, Ellie—do feel free to show your young man around the house. He’ll be very impressed, I know!’
‘What’s that you’re muttering, Richard?’ I asked as we wandered over to the marquee clutching our champagne.
‘Um . . . Nouveau-riche, arriviste, exploitative, bull-dozing chancer,’ he said with a smile. ‘That’s what I was saying. And I was trying to be polite. If I were telling the whole truth I’d add—villain. How on earth did you get involved with these dodgy people, Ellie?’
‘The usual way. Estate Agent’s recommendation. They pass our name to rich clients who need good guidance from a firm that knows the local property and isn’t going to rip them off. The Redmaynes aren’t generally known to be—what did you say?—something slanderous: crooks? In fact they’re making quite a niche for themselves in local society.’ I waved a hand around at the glittering crowd. Bare shoulders, supercilious glances, diamonds winking at the throat, over-loud laughter, flushed faces and male guffaws. ‘A ‘‘Lord’’, however fresh the paint on his escutcheon, cuts some ice in this county. This is their new small pond. They want to be big fish in it and they’ve got the clout to do it. If they’re at all uncertain they can hire people like me to advise them. Don’t knock wealth, Richard, it creates a lot of work locally. This place kept a team of Suffolk craftsmen going for a year.’
‘Right. But you’ve finished here now, I take it? Hope you have. Well, shall we mingle with the crowd? I see some faces even I recognise. Let’s just hope they don’t recognise me. Cast a discreet glance, will you, at the blokes over there at the table under the apple tree. I�
��ve got mug shots of the lot of them back at HQ. And one of them has just got back from Spain. The tall one with the full suntan. Flew in from the Costa del Crime two days ago. Stay well away from him, Ellie.’ He fell silent for a moment, glancing around uneasily, eyes seeking the gesticulating figure of their host and flicking back to the visitor from Spain. ‘This could turn nasty. I wonder if old Ron’s aware of the serpent lurking in his shrubbery?’ he murmured. ‘I do hope he’s slipped on his steel-lined Y-fronts. He’s annoyed some influential people lately. Could have brought down a painful retribution on his head. Or other more sensitive parts of his anatomy.’
‘Those blokes don’t look at all suspicious to me. Just like the other men here—successful businessmen, you’d say. They probably give generously to charity and own half a racehorse.’
‘And support a heavy alimony habit,’ said Jennings, ‘judging by the third wives clustering around.’
‘How can you tell they’re third wives?’
‘Not difficult. Get your eye in, Ellie. First wives at this binge are in gold lamé and real jewels, dressed for a night at the Royal Opera House . . . a night twenty years ago. The second wives are in Chloë and Manolos with a spray tan, streaked hair and a watchful expression. Third wives are young and skinny as alley-cats and tug at their hair extensions in boredom. They’d rather be back home watching the X Factor.’
I looked at him in surprise. It occurred to me that I really knew very little about DI Jennings. ‘I had no idea you were so observant! What are you then? Some sort of profiler? Okay, Mr. Clever, tell me what category Alicia comes into.’
He pretended to reflect. ‘“Not immediately obvious. Dark-hair and mysterious dark eyes. Intelligent looking. Far too good for Ron. Stylish woman. Chanel, would you say—that white clinging thing? Something as tasteful as it’s expensive, anyway. She’s a good bit younger than Ron so I’ll go for second wife but with more than a touch of independence about her.’
The Ellie Hardwick Mysteries Page 8
