by Joyce Cato
But by now Lucas had had time to rally, and he merely smiled grimly. ‘If you’ve read those documents thoroughly, Inspector, you’ll know that nothing was ever proved.’
‘But it put the wind up you enough to make you agree to sell this boat though, didn’t it … sir,’ Graves put in, his voice dripping with disgust. ‘No doubt if your friends in the drugs gangs learned that you and your past dealings with them were about to become public knowledge, they might have got a little worried about your continuing ability to keep your mouth shut, hmm? Is that why you knuckled under? It certainly wasn’t because you cared about your reputation, was it, Mr Finch?’ he sneered.
Lucas returned to a dull grey colour, all but admitting that the sergeant had hit the nail right on the head.
But he said nothing.
Rycroft turned away in disgust. Then he glanced across at the assembled company, who were all being very careful not to look Lucas in the eye.
‘I want everyone to spend the night on board,’ he said heavily, half expecting to be the brunt of the usual grumbling that such an order might be expected to generate. But, somewhat to his surprise, nobody demurred. Obviously they had been expecting such an order, and none of them seemed inclined to rail against it.
It was an odd reaction, Rycroft thought. And their meek acceptance unnerved him somewhat. He even wondered, for a brief, wild, insane moment, whether it was possible that they were all in on it together. Each and every one of them had their own reasons for wanting Gabriel Olney dead.
Was that sort of thing even possible, he wondered, breaking out into a cold sweat. He’d never had to deal with a fairly large-scale conspiracy case before. And they were absolute sods to prove.
Then sanity overtook him again. He’d been at work all day, rushing about in the heat, and getting nowhere. He was just overtired, that was all.
‘Have the lads set up our tents for the night?’ he asked his sergeant, his weariness very apparent now.
Graves nodded.
‘Then I think I’ll turn in.’
‘Don’t you want any dinner, Inspector?’ Jenny said, her voice rife with disapproval. ‘I’ve kept some hot for you. And for you, too, of course, Sergeant Graves,’ the cook added cunningly. ‘I was just about to ask Francis to serve the main course anyway.’
Nor had she misread her man. Sergeant Graves hadn’t grown up to be such a strapping lad by nibbling on lettuce leaves. His big face lit up and his stomach growled, quite audibly. The parrot cocked his head to one side, the better to hear this intriguing new noise.
Rycroft, admitting defeat, sat down in a vacant chair, a rather amused gleam in his eye as his sergeant quickly did the same. But a scant minute later he was forced to admit that he was glad he had, as an extremely appetizing dinner was put down in front of him. The smell coming off the meat alone had his mouth watering.
Jenny stayed only long enough to watch the sergeant begin to wolf down his dinner, before taking a plateful to the engineer, who, rather wisely, had returned to the boiler room to keep his head down.
She came straight back, however, appeasing Rycroft somewhat. If she’d stayed behind to question the engineer further, he might just have been tempted to order her off the boat and back to Oxford, just to get her out from under his feet.
But he was too good a policeman not to admit that she had proved helpful so far, and might do so again. And as much as he wanted to beat the cook to the punchline, so to speak, he wanted to apprehend the killer more.
Rycroft hated murder. He hated civil disobedience of any kind.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the rest of the dinner was a quiet affair, and quickly over. Lucas had lost his appetite for his fruit tart, though the parrot had been a gentleman about it, and had helped him to clear his plate, much to Graves’ amusement and Rycroft’s finicky disgust.
Jasmine suggested a game of cards, and cast a look of silent appeal across the table at Dorothy, who, with typical feminine intuition, picked up on it at once and plucked at her husband’s sleeve in gentle persuasion.
All three disappeared into the games room. Lucas said, somewhat grimly, that he wanted a word with O’Keefe, and quickly left. No doubt, over dinner, he’d been figuring out who had removed the papers from Olney’s room, and why. He must have been both astonished and relieved when the police search had failed to turn them up in Olney’s room.
Jenny wouldn’t want to be in the engineer’s shoes at that moment. Not that Lucas could fire him, of course. Not with what O’Keefe now knew. And that led her onto another line of thought.
Had Olney been killed because of what he knew? Lucas was now, in anybody’s book, looking to be the prime suspect. And a man with such a ruthless nature had to be top of Rycroft’s list.
She cleared away the dishes, with the help, of course, of the silent, heavily disapproving Francis. Jenny was glad when the silent servant did his usual disappearing act. There was something very nerve-wracking about Francis. Perhaps it was because she was never sure just what he was thinking.
She even went so far as to watch him leave the Stillwater Swan and enter his neat little tent on the riverbank. The thought of him sleeping the afternoon away on her bed gave her the shivers.
If he had slept the afternoon away at all, that is.
She had seen for herself how oddly devoted Francis Grey was to his employer. She’d also noticed, during the revelation about Lucas’s ugly past, that Francis had never so much as winced. That he already knew about Lucas’s evil deeds during the seventies and eighties was, to her mind at least, beyond doubt. And yet still Francis was happy to carry on working for Finch. Finch, a lowly cockney. Finch, the very antithesis of a gentleman.
And yet Francis was so very much a gentleman’s gentleman.
What was going on there?
No, Jenny didn’t appreciate having Francis around, but that didn’t necessarily mean he would commit murder, just on his employer’s say-so. When all was said and done, Francis had no real motive for killing Gabriel. His position as valet was safe, whether the Swan was sold or not.
Besides, Jenny couldn’t help thinking that now she knew how the murder had been committed, she should know who had committed it.
In the back of her mind, she knew that she had seen something important that afternoon. Something very important. And somebody, much earlier on, had said something that kept haunting the fringes of her memory, but refused to surface. And, like a bad sense of déjà vu, there was something else that somebody had said still later on that kept niggling at her. Something Jasmine Olney had said.
But what?
Jenny sighed and checked her food supplies for possible breakfast dishes. She made up a short mental menu for tomorrow morning then decided to take a slow stroll around the decks to clear her head.
She, like Rycroft, was beginning to get overtired. A good night’s rest and who knew what the morning might bring?
She stepped through the French doors onto the starboard deck.
The night was beautiful. There was a full moon and the first few twinklings of evening stars. The sky was just turning that lovely soft sapphire shade before full darkness descended.
She folded up and put her favourite chair back against the deck wall, and did the same with a second one, frowning a little as she did so. Two chairs? Then her puzzlement cleared. Of course – the Leighs had been sitting out here earlier. She must be even more tired than she thought, to have forgotten that.
She continued on to the end of the side deck, glanced at the equipment box and the round, red and white inflated life ring that was hung above it, then turned down the corridor to the rear deck.
She glanced at the boiler room, her ears pricked. It was quiet, however, so presumably Lucas Finch had given the engineer his rollicking and left. Nevertheless, she didn’t go in. She’d seen all she needed to see in there.
She took her time strolling along the port deck but when she got to the front of the boat, the decking was now dry. The rope and boot were
gone – obviously with the forensics team.
That boot had been clever. Very clever.
She sighed and stepped into the games room.
Jasmine had apparently just lost her game of gin rummy, for she tossed down her cards with a softly muttered ‘damn’ and stood up. ‘I need a drink,’ she added, and walked over to the drinks cabinet.
Lucas, sat on a sofa and ostensibly reading a book, glanced up when Jenny entered, but said nothing.
Even to Jasmine, he could see that he was persona non grata.
Jenny wondered how long it would take for fresh rumours to start circulating about Lucas around the village of Buscot, and supposed it wouldn’t take long. This time, however, the rumours would have rather more substance to them.
She found it hard to feel sorry for him. But at least he had his faithful bird for company.
The parrot, as if in agreement, proceeded to preen itself and cast tiny, scarlet feathers all over his master’s shirt.
Dorothy stood up slowly but shooed her husband back into his seat as he rose to join her. ‘Miss Starling, do you think I might have a milky drink to take to bed with me?’ she asked, and Jenny instantly beamed approval.
‘Of course you can. Would cocoa be all right?’
Dorothy nodded. ‘I haven’t had cocoa in years,’ she said wistfully and followed her through into the main salon to stand, hovering by the galley door as the cook quickly set about making her the hot drink.
Hearing a rustle behind her, Dorothy half turned in surprise as Inspector Rycroft, who’d gone unnoticed on a large sofa, suddenly rose.
This time he was going to hit the sack. He only hoped that Graves didn’t snore. As if on cue, the burly sergeant also rose from the depths of a shadow, where he’d been putting his feet up on a recliner chair in one corner.
Dorothy quickly glanced through the door to the games room, and gently coughed.
Jenny heard it first, and walked to the door. ‘Inspector,’ Jenny said quietly yet firmly.
Rycroft rounded on her. ‘What is it now?’
Jenny, however, didn’t take offence. Instead she merely nodded to the woman stood beside her.
‘I think Mrs Leigh has something to say to you,’ she hazarded gently.
Dorothy Leigh gave her a rather surprised look, then quickly glanced at the inspector, then once more cast the games room a rather anxious look.
Graves and Rycroft stiffened like dogs picking up a scent.
‘Yes, Mrs Leigh?’ Rycroft said softly, instinctively moving away from the games room and closer to the pretty, fair-haired woman who chewed her lower lip in a becoming, if indecisive, manner.
‘Well, it might be nothing,’ Dorothy said, a touch nervously, ‘but I suppose I really should mention it….’
‘Anything can be important, Mrs Leigh,’ Rycroft agreed firmly.
Dorothy nodded. ‘Well … it has to do with Mrs Olney.’
TWELVE
RYCROFT’S EYES BRIEFLY flickered at the name of the grieving widow, but other than that he merely raised his expressive eyebrows. This silent demand, designed no doubt to intimidate more information from its recipient, wasn’t really necessary on this particular witness, Jenny thought, but supposed it had become something of a habit of his, and one that must have served him well in the past.
As it was, Dorothy quickly wrung her hands together and glanced yet again towards the games room, as if fearing that the woman in question had super-sensitive hearing and could somehow listen in on her near-whispered words.
‘It was during the darts match,’ Dorothy began reluctantly, her pretty blue eyes creasing into a frown. ‘I don’t know what it was, exactly,’ she admitted, confusingly, ‘but I’m sure it was the real reason why she suddenly left the room.’
Rycroft smiled politely. ‘Yes, Mrs Leigh. Now, could you tell me exactly what it is that you’re talking about?’
Dorothy flushed. ‘Oh. Sorry, aren’t I making any sense? I happened to look across at Jasmine to ask her if she wanted a drink, when I saw her turn a page of her magazine.’
‘Magazine,’ Rycroft repeated blandly. He glanced at Graves, who merely gave an infinitesimal shrug of his mammoth shoulders.
‘Yes. Her magazine,’ Dorothy continued, apparently unaware that the two men were beginning to regard her as something of a featherbrain. ‘And in between the pages of the magazine, I saw a white piece of paper.’
‘Oh?’ At this, Rycroft perked up considerably. Jenny, who was watching the both of them carefully, was struck once more at the pug-like looks and tendencies of Inspector Neil Rycroft. All he needed was a larger pair of floppier ears, she thought, utterly fascinated, and he could have perked them up at just the right instant to look for all the world like a dog about to be thrown a bone.
Dorothy nodded. ‘At that moment, of course, Mrs Olney glanced up, but I’d already begun to look away.’ She said this with some evident relief, and Jenny could understand why. A woman like Dorothy Leigh would have been raised to try and avoid embarrassing little moments as if they were the plague.
The information was definitely interesting and Jenny nodded to herself as she quickly took in its full import, but neither of the policemen seemed to notice. She doubted that they’d picked up on Dorothy Leigh’s obvious piece of very clever feminine deduction, either. Namely, that it could only have been from a man. It took another beautiful woman to second-guess someone like Jasmine Olney.
So. There was more to Dorothy Leigh than one might think, the cook mused. But then, wasn’t there always more to any woman than a mere man might think?
‘Anyway,’ Dorothy said, beginning to look a little shamefaced. ‘I waited a moment or two and then looked back. I was … well, curious, I suppose. And I saw at once that Jasmine was reading it. The piece of paper, I mean, not the magazine,’ Dorothy added hastily.
Rycroft nodded, apparently insensible to the fact that he’d just had his intelligence rather cleverly insulted.
Graves’ lips, however, did their usual twitch. So, there was a lot more to the burly sergeant as well, Jenny mused fairly, than was obvious at first glance. Jenny had never been able to understand why the public in general always thought that a big, hefty man had to have a small brain.
She began to wonder whether it might be Graves, and not Rycroft after all, who provided the intelligence for their successful partnership.
‘After she’d read it, she sort of turned a few more pages, yawned, and said she was going up for a nap,’ Dorothy concluded. ‘Naturally, I wondered who the note was from.’
Again the cook nodded to herself. It all sounded very much like Jasmine-Olney-type behaviour to her. She didn’t doubt that Dorothy Leigh was telling the truth.
Rycroft pursed his lips. ‘Could you see what was written on this note?’
But Dorothy quickly shook her head. ‘Oh no, I was sitting several seats away. I can only tell you that it wasn’t a very long note.’
Jenny gave a very slight cough. ‘Did you notice which magazine it was in?’
Dorothy smiled. ‘It was one of those fancy French fashion things. I remember particularly because I’ve always admired the actress who was on the cover.’
Jenny’s eye quickly scanned the room and alighted on the coffee table, on which resided two magazines. Rycroft, catching on, all but sprinted for the table, moving off the spot like an athlete hearing the starting gun.
Jenny, of course, who’d had no intention of making such an undignified dash for the evidence, felt her own lips begin to twitch. Ruthlessly, she firmed them into a hard straight line. Sergeant Graves’ example of hidden mirth could be most habit forming.
The junior officer was a handsome man, too, Jenny noted absently and then frowned ferociously. If mixing business and pleasure was a no-no, then how much more of a no-no was mixing murder enquiries with pleasure? She quickly turned away from the sergeant and turned her mind strictly to Rycroft, who was returning to their position clustered around the door and riffling the pages
of the magazine as he did so.
Then he gave a soft exclamation and withdrew a single piece of paper. ‘I’d have thought she’d have got rid of this by now,’ he said, avidly scanning the few lines.
As he read the ‘B.O’K’ signed at the bottom of the note, he drew his breath in sharply.
‘O’Keefe again,’ he said, then suddenly remembered that Dorothy Leigh was still present. He quickly curled the note into his fist. ‘Oh, er, thank you, Mrs Leigh, for bringing this to our attention.’
Jenny very helpfully poured Dorothy’s milky drink for her and urged her to get to bed.
She was not quite as pale as she had been earlier on, and, indeed, dressed in a long-sleeved mint-green dress, she now looked very fetching. But her eyes showed signs of strain, and the cook didn’t urge her to bed merely to help out Rycroft, who obviously wanted her gone.
As she watched Dorothy move across the main salon, her husband quickly joined her from the games room. Obviously, he’d been watching out for her, too. Together the young couple left the room. As a show of simple togetherness it was touching in a way you seldom felt about couples nowadays, Jenny mused with just a little sigh.
Obviously the sergeant thought so too.
‘Attractive,’ Graves said succinctly, but Rycroft was once again scanning the note. He handed it to Graves who then, after a moment’s thought, handed it to the cook.
Jenny read the note thoughtfully. It purported to be from Brian O’Keefe, and it urged Jasmine to go to her room and wait for him. It asked her to keep a lookout at the door in case her husband should show up.
It was a very clever note, Jenny thought judiciously.
Very clever indeed.
‘Right then,’ Rycroft said. ‘Let’s get O’Keefe in here. I want another word with him,’ he added ominously.
But as Graves started off, Jenny halted him in mid-stride with just one quiet, very well-placed word. The word was, ‘Why?’
