Kathryn started sketching a diagram of the Mallowans at the bottom of the page. “See here, Dorothea, the middle-age afterthought? Kit’s aunt, just a bit older than he? She ups and marries Harry. So Harry isn’t only Meg’s uncle, he’s Kit’s uncle as well. By marriage at least. Don’t you love it?”
Tom, murmuring appreciation, studied the diagram while Kathryn began to make a clean copy of it. He told her about a few details he had gleaned from Crumper on the drive to Morgan Mallowan; after Kathryn had added those, the Bebberidge-Thorpe and Mallowan family trees looked like this:
After a moment Tom remarked that if Derek fell down a dark flight of stairs before producing a son, the older Tandulkar twin would eventually become Sir Harry.
“Yes; Derek, apparently, was produced specifically to keep that from happening.”
“But have you noticed that Harry’s in line from another direction?”
Kathryn looked where Tom was pointing. “My God,” she said.
“Yeah, if Harry wanted to help somebody to fall down those dark stairs, he might do better to start with Kit.”
“But hang on. Even if Kit dies without issue, Harry doesn’t become the marquis.”
“No, but any baby boy he produces does. The father of the marquis could count on a pretty comfortable life, couldn’t he? More comfortable than the estate manager of the marquis.”
Kathryn scowled at the family tree. “Well, I admit that’s all frightfully interesting, but although I don’t particularly care for Harry, I don’t immediately see any profit in finding motives for Harry to do away with Derek and/or Kit. Do you imagine that if we perused this thing a trifle longer, we might discover a good reason for Harry to do away with a visiting American? Because, after all, it’s my cousin . . .”
Tom shook his head. “I just can’t see anything here that could possibly tie in to Rob.”
Kathryn sighed. “Neither can I. Well, it’s not our job, it’s Inspector What’s-his-name’s.”
“Griffin,” said a voice.
Tom and Kathryn turned, startled, to see the Detective Inspector standing in the open doorway. Kathryn apologized and invited him in; Griffin came, followed by Sergeant Duncan. “Have you found out anything?” Kathryn asked.
“As a matter of fact we have,” D.I. Griffin said, sounding a trifle cross. “Can we sit down?”
Kathryn hopped up from her chair beside Tom and started to play hostess, ushering Griffin and his colleague to the overstuffed seating around the coffee table. Tom joined them, observing that the Detective Inspector’s attitude toward both of them had altered, and not for the better.
Griffin went after Kathryn first; this Chris person whom she had said her cousin was interested in—
“Only initially,” she corrected him. “It turned out platonic.”
“All right, initially. Chris Foley. He’s a man.”
“So?”
“You knew that?”
“I assumed it.”
“Why didn’t you tell us your cousin was a homosexual?”
“You didn’t ask. It didn’t occur to me. I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“It didn’t occur to you?”
“No it didn’t.” There was an unmistakable touch of frost in her voice. “Many people regard a person’s sexual orientation as a very minor piece of information, not worth mentioning in most circumstances.”
Griffin may have been about to say that in a homicide investigation everything was relevant, but a rare flash of insight seemed to warn him he was going to lose this argument whatever he said. So he turned to Tom. “How about you, Chief Holder? Did you regard what you do for a living as a minor piece of information not worth mentioning?”
So they had checked with New Jersey. Tom approved. It would have been sloppy of them not to have made inquiries about their American visitors. But he was not about to congratulate Griffin, because Kathryn was irked at the guy. He spread his hands and deliberately repeated two-thirds of what Kathryn had said. “You didn’t ask. I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Not even as a matter of personal courtesy?”
“I thought it would be more courteous to stay out of your hair.”
Griffin, balked of prey, seemed uncertain how to proceed. He was saved the bother by the sudden appearance of Derek in the doorway.
“Kathryn, my dear! Tom! I came to ask if you’d enjoyed Morgan Mallo—.” He had spotted the policemen, and the change in his expression was almost comical.
“Oh, come in, Mr. Banner,” said Griffin with false courtesy.
Mr. Banner did so, obviously reluctant. The frustrated Detective waited until Derek had found a vacant space in the chintz and dropped into it, then said to him querulously, “Nobody tells me anything, Mr. Banner. It gets annoying.”
Derek assumed an expression of surprise and hurriedly assured the Inspector that he, Derek, would be happy to tell him anything that he might possibly—
“Then why don’t you tell me,” Griffin cut in, “why you’ve been walking around on hot bricks ever since this happened?”
Derek goggled speechlessly; Kathryn and Tom exchanged glances; Derek found part of his voice and began to croak, “Why! Of all the—! Am I supposed to be cool as a cucumber while police crawl all over the house insisting there’s been a murder, all the while, I might add, failing to turn up a murderer or even a feeble excuse for a motive or even—”
It was the right speech, but it was days too late, as even Derek himself seemed to be aware; he began to falter. He was spared the effort of thinking up anything else to be indignant about, however, because again someone appeared in the doorway. It was Crumper.
Every person in the room immediately recognized that something, somewhere, was very wrong. It was all too clear that Crumper was preserving his decorum only with the exercise of iron will; he was pale, he was rigid, and his fists were clenched.
“Detective Inspector,” said the butler, “your presence is required downstairs. Mary will show you,” he gestured.
The policemen were out of the room in a matter of seconds; Derek, Tom, and Kathryn had risen instinctively but were making no attempt to leave. Rather, they were looking at Crumper, who, having stepped back to let the police pass, had entered about eighteen inches into the room, his fists still clenched. The butler was looking at Derek, and it was clear he was laboring for words. Finally, he managed to convey a great deal in three syllables. He said apologetically, “Sir Derek.”
There followed two seconds of frozen silence before Derek uttered a desolate cry of “No!” and ran from the room. Crumper, who appeared to have tears in his eyes, turned and sprinted after him. Kathryn and Tom followed suit.
At the door of Sir Gregory’s library there was a scene. Griffin’s cohort from upstairs was forcibly preventing a frantic Derek from entering the room. Derek was putting up a mighty struggle to get past him, shouting, “He’s my uncle, damn it!”
Kathryn stole up behind the struggling pair and peered through the open door; Tom approached quietly and stood looking over her shoulder. On the far side of the library they could see an enormous desk; slumped across it lay the unmistakably dead body of Sir Gregory Bebberidge-Thorpe. At dinner the previous night his wit and determined good cheer had disguised his frailty; now his hair seemed instantly to have thinned to mere wisps, and the skin of his hands hand gone virtually transparent. D.I. Griffin was nosing around the corpse with an air so eagerly curious and so completely un-grieved that Kathryn felt a little sick.
Derek and the Sergeant were still wrestling with each other.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the cop kept saying, “I can’t let you in,” and as both he and Derek were being equally stubborn, it is uncertain how long the fracas would have continued if it hadn’t been for Crumper.
The butler touched one of Derek’s struggling shoulders and said, “Sir Derek. Sir Gregory would expect his heir to behave with dignity.”
The fight went out of Derek instantly. He lifted his hands from t
he lapels of the policeman and stood still. The policeman in turn released his hold, and Derek stepped back. When he spoke, however, he was far from calm.
“I insist that you allow me to go to my uncle.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but your uncle is dead.”
“I know that, you blithering idiot! Why won’t you let me go to him? You have no right—”
Crumper threw Tom a glance, a mute cry for help.
Tom stepped forward and laid a firm hand on Derek’s arm. “Derek, he can’t let you into the room. He has to keep you out here. There was a homicide in this house five days ago. An unexpected death must be treated as a possible crime until proven otherwise. And the place where it happened has to be treated like a crime scene, no civilians allowed.”
Tom went on, calmly explaining to the stricken young man all the common-sense facts that Derek’s mind would already have recognized if it hadn’t been experiencing a tidal wave of emotions.
Crumper took the opportunity to inform Sergeant Duncan that an ambulance had already been summoned but that Sir Gregory’s doctor, who had also been called, was likely to arrive first. Duncan turned to relay the information to D. I. Griffin. Kathryn went down the hall to where a pair of Chippendale chairs flanked a china cabinet; she picked up one of the chairs, brought it back to the tense group by the library, set it behind Derek, and urged him to sit down. Tom added his persuasion vocally and physically, pushing Derek gently toward the chair until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the seat and folded under him. Kathryn turned to the Sergeant and assured him that they would keep Derek out of the library and he was free to assist D. I. Griffin if he needed to. She then assured Crumper that she and Tom would look after Derek if Crumper needed to convey the news to Meg and other members of the household. He thanked her in a shaking voice and walked rapidly away.
It was a long afternoon. Tea, in the English sense of a light meal, simply did not occur, but countless cups of that comforting beverage were consumed by those who waited in the hallway outside Sir Gregory’s library. It was delivered by Crumper, who moved discreetly among the group of watchers as their number gradually increased. The Vicar joined them, as did Kit Mallowan, both summoned by Crumper. More chairs were mustered, and the hall became crowded, but Derek would not leave his post and none of the others would leave Derek.
The only time the new Baronet left his chair was when running footsteps coming from the main entrance announced the arrival of Meg, who had been in Oxford. She called Derek’s name and he strode to meet her; they held each other and wept. Kathryn, watching them, felt herself welling up, and then saw that Kit, who had wheeled his chair next to hers, also had silent tears running down his cheeks. She took his hand. Tom, meanwhile, was trying his best to be supportive to Crumper, who he suspected was almost as devastated as Meg and Derek.
Some slight alleviation to the misery had arrived with Sir Gregory’s doctor, a familiar figure who could be trusted (unlike the police) to be sensitive to the Family. Sure enough, after several minutes in the library under Detective Inspector Griffin’s watchful eye, he emerged to inform Derek that as far as he could determine, Sir Gregory had suffered a heart attack. “I can’t find any sign of violence, Derek; I know it’s hard for you to lose him, but we’ve always known he could go at any time. But at least he wasn’t—well, uh, it wasn’t deliberate, is what I’m trying to say.”
But Griffin continued to hold his fort until the force’s own doctor arrived. In time she did, and confirmed the opinion of her colleague. No signs of foul play; probably natural causes, evidence consistent with coronary arrest. All of this was well received, right up until the point when she concluded, “Of course, under the circumstances, there will have to be a postmortem.”
Derek, who had risen to listen to her report, sank back into his chair with a groan and covered his face with his hands. Meg put her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.
Finally, after what seemed like half a week, the police allowed the niece and nephew to enter the library and commune silently with the body of their uncle.
Kathryn had ascertained, with a quiet question to the Vicar, that he intended to stay “all day and all night if necessary.” She had watched him with Derek and Meg, he had touched them, embraced them, encouraged them to hold hands as they sat and waited. He had not uttered a single traditional pastoral atrocity, such as “Don’t cry,” or “It’s God’s will.” Kathryn had concluded that priests in the Church of England were getting better training in grief counseling than they used to, and further concluded that her professional services were not going to be required. Kit and Crumper, though still somber, seemed to have recovered their composure.
Kathryn excused herself, went up to her room, and changed her luncheon outfit for shorts and sneakers. She went down to the entrance hall and out the open front door. She turned left onto the gravel drive and walked around the Castle until she got to the side where the yellow police ribbon still staked out the place where her cousin had fallen to his death.
She sat on the grass verge of the drive in the shade of a tree; it was nearly seven P.M., but thanks to England’s semieternal summer evenings, it was still broad daylight. She stared at the empty space where Rob’s body had lain and immediately began to cry without restraint.
The sobs had abated but the tears were still falling when she became aware of the crunching of gravel and the sound of a small motor. From the rear of the Castle appeared Kit in a motorized wheelchair with huge, fat, soft tires like black balloons.
He lifted a hand in greeting and called, “Wonderful contraption, don’t you think?”
“It is indeed,” she agreed, wiping her cheeks and sniffing. “Where did you got it?” Now that he was closer, she could see the ravages of grief on his face, belying the cheerful words.
“Borrowed it. It’s Sir Gregory’s outdoor chair. Rolls over gravel like a tank, wades mud puddles like a jeep, leaps tall buildings with a single bound.”
As usual, Kit made her laugh. He rolled the chair over to where she was sitting under the tree and stopped beside her, thoughtfully not blocking her view of the yellow tapes. Now that he had made his entrance, so to speak, he dropped the levity, and for a while they talked quietly about their losses.
“We shared a certain frustration,” Kit explained, tapping the arms of the wheelchair with his forefingers. “It spanned the age gap.”
Kathryn nodded and made a listening noise. “You will miss him, won’t you?”
“God, yes.”
They were silent for a few minutes. Then Kit said softly, “Kathryn, do me a little favor.”
“Sure, what?”
“Stand up.”
Puzzled but willing, she stood. Kit put his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself up about ten inches. Then with a swift movement he brought his right arm up, caught the branch above his head, and pulled himself up to his full height. He put his left arm around Kathryn’s waist and pulled her suddenly to him.
She had been right when she had surmised that his arms must be strong. He held her tight, waist-to-waist, their faces level and almost touching. He waited a second for some move or murmur of protest, but aside from a little gasp of surprise she was still. He kissed her.
Unlike most of the kisses Kathryn had experienced, this one began hard, insistent, passionate, then slowly, over the space of a full minute, relaxed into a gentle caress of lips and tongues. Kathryn could feel, below her waist, his body’s proof of his assurance to her that he could “function.” She herself was fiercely aroused, and returned the pressure.
When they drew slowly away from the kiss, Kathryn asked breathlessly, “Isn’t your arm getting tired?”
“Yes, but other parts of me are very, very happy.”
She laughed, and so did he. He began to scatter kisses on her face, whispering, “Tonight, Kathryn—come back with me tonight.”
“Yes, oh yes,” she responded without an instant’s pause for thought.
Neither of them had heard the footsteps on the gravel. Neither of them saw Tom Holder come around the corner of the Castle and stop, his heart contracting so painfully at the sight of them that he threw up both hands to his chest as though to shield it from further injury.
Chapter 23
A WEDNESDAY IN LATE JULY 1997
Thirty Minutes Before Rob Hillman’s Death
“Oh! Hullo, Dad.” Crumpet had come around the corner of a hedge in the servants’ garden, and had been surprised to see her father sitting in a chair in the sun with his sleeves rolled up and his shoes off.
“Hello, Julie.” Crumper lowered his newspaper. “I thought you’d gone back to Oxford.”
“Uh, changed my mind.” She waved a vague hand. “Nice day and all, you know.”
“I see.”
“Don’t need to ask your permission, do I?”
“Of course not,” Crumper replied mildly, wondering why his daughter was so defensive. Hiding something again, it appeared. “Shall we see you at tea, then?” He smiled. “I think your mum might have time to stir up some of her orange biscuits.” He hoped it wasn’t horribly obvious that he was making an effort.
“Thanks, Dad. That’d be nice. See you in a bit, then.” She started to continue down the path, but turned back, crossed swiftly to his chair, and planted a kiss on his forehead.
This unaccustomed display of affection threw Crumper a little off balance. Had she done it deliberately, he wondered, knowing it would have that effect? Was she trying to keep him from asking what was going on? Certainly she wasn’t her normal self. It wasn’t just the hint of guilt; his daughter was normally languid, as if rapid movement were a waste of energy. But now she was being positively brisk.
Crumpet swore softly under her breath as she hurried along. She would have to run into her dad! She was nervous, and her old man had spotted it, she knew. Nothing ever got past him.
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