by Anne Morice
“He’s coming down tomorrow,” Elsa told me, “so he’s not wasting any time. Poor James! I suppose he also feels that he could never set foot in the place again, even if he’s acquitted. I’m not madly keen to set foot in it myself, to be honest with you, but it has to be done.”
“I imagine you’re not the only one and it’s going to make it rather hard to get rid of, isn’t it?”
“Almost impossible, one would have thought. The minute any potential buyers show up, they’ll hear the whole gruesome story and it’s bound to put them off. At any rate, that’s what Louise is hoping.”
“Why? Would she prefer it to remain empty and at the mercy of the vandals?”
“No, she’s got her eye on it for some friends of hers, who want to move out of London. They’re a young couple, with small children, so she thinks it would be ideal for them and they’ll be able to get it at rock bottom price.”
“How could anyone be so callous?”
“No, just practical. She says that, once it’s re-decorated, with all their own furniture in and the children scampering about, the ghosts will be exorcised. As she sensibly points out, there can’t be many houses of a hundred years old or more where something dreadful hasn’t happened at some time to someone. The only difference is that you don’t usually know about it, so it’s silly to be squeamish just because you do.”
“Well, personally, if I were thinking of buying it, I’d expect to have another ten thousand knocked off the price, as compensation for having to live within hailing distance of Louise.”
“Well, now, Tessa, I am sorry to hear that because I was going to ask you to do us a favour.”
“Go ahead!”
“Now that you’ve finished your studio work, I was wondering if you’d come down for the day and give us a hand?”
“With sorting out Rosamund’s belongings? I don’t think I’d be much use to you there.”
“No, we shan’t need your help with that, but I’ve been thinking. Mr. Ferguson will be arriving at ten, but we can’t possibly get through till late afternoon. So that means giving him lunch and it’s going to be a bit sticky. One can’t very well turn it into a social occasion and invite other people. For one thing, they probably wouldn’t go away. On the other hand, I don’t relish the prospect of sitting through lunch with him when he and I and Louise have spent the whole morning together and have nothing to look forward to but the whole afternoon. I thought, if you were there, it might brighten things up a bit.”
“And we could explain that I’d just happened to drop in unexpectedly?”
“Something like that. After all, you tell me he’s an old friend of Robin’s, so that would make a sort of bridge and give us something else to talk about. Do you think you could?”
“But of course, Elsa! I shall look forward to it and it will provide a counter-irritant for Louise.”
“They could do with another five minutes,” I said, sticking a fork into one of the potatoes in the bottom oven, while Elsa busied herself with the assorted cold meats and salad.
“Good! Give us a chance to relax and have a drink. Alan’s got his whisky and water, so we don’t have to worry about him. Is wine all right for you?”
“Wine would be fine. How’s it going at Orchard House?”
“Not badly. Very exhausting, though, and it’s taking much longer than I expected. Thank God for Louise! It would take me a week to do it on my own, without her to organise everything. All the same, it’s quite a relief that she decided to go home for lunch. She wouldn’t approve of our lazing about like this, when there’s work to be done. If I know her, she’ll swallow a cup of tea and a biscuit and get back on the job.”
“In what way does she organise you?”
“Into our separate functions. She’s taken on the bedroom and bathroom and I’m doing the kitchen. We have to sort everything into three piles, one to be thrown away, one for Oxfam and the rest for the village jumble sale.”
“And Alan?”
“Oh, he’s dealing with all the papers in Rosamund’s desk. Very tedious it must be, too, but at least he’s able to sit down.”
“I thought that was the executor’s job?”
“He is the executor. One of them, that is, the other being James.”
“So when do you expect to be through?”
“Oh, some time tomorrow, with any luck. Louise and me, I mean. Alan’s going to attack the garage later this afternoon and then he’ll be off. He’s leaving the keys with Louise, so that we can finish in our own time and also so that she can show the estate agents over.”
“And point out all the defects, so as to be sure of her friends getting it nice and cheap.”
“I intend to make you pay for that remark, Tessa.”
“How?”
“I told you there was nothing for you to do up there, but, having seen what lies ahead, I think there might be one small job you could take on. On second thoughts, I’d better wait and tell you over lunch, in case Alan has any objection. He’s nominally in charge and one wouldn’t want to step on any toes. I’m sure those potatoes must be ready by now, so let’s make a start, shall we?”
Alan had no objection and nor had Louise, who, as had been foretold, was already hard at work, having temporarily transferred her activities to a small work-room on the top floor. An electric sewing machine, ironing board and typewriter were stacked against one wall, already labelled for their destination. And she had now turned her attention to an assortment of needlework in varying stages of completion. She explained that she had taken the opportunity to deal with these items while Alan was out of the way, so as not to be in it when he resumed work on the desk, which was also in this room.
“Very kind of you, Tessa! We could certainly use an extra pair of hands, but you’ll need an overall. Now, let’s see what we can find for you among this lot.”
I could guess the reason for this unusual affability because the task they had allotted to me was to clamber up a frail-looking steel ladder, through a square hole in the ceiling into the loft and to make an inventory of its contents. Apart from being an uncomfortable and dirty way of spending an afternoon, a glance at the entranceway was enough to show that neither she nor Elsa could have squeezed through it without first going on a crash diet.
“I put my head inside to see what was there,” Louise went on. “It seems to be mostly fishing tackle and racquets and so on, but there are some suitcases as well. They may all be empty, of course. Let’s hope that some of them are because it would simplify our job down here, but that’s for you to find out. Have you got a pencil and pad for her, Alan? And no smoking, mind! We don’t want another fire, to add to our problems. You’d better leave your bag down here, in case you get tempted.”
“The light’s on already,” I said, peering up. “How come?”
“Because the switch is down here, over by the door. All set now? Right! Then up you go!”
I started by making an inventory of the fishing rods and other sporting paraphernalia, then tested each of the suitcases for weight. Four were obviously empty, so I carried them over to the other end of the loft and placed them around the square hole. Of the three which remained one contained nothing but gum boots, mackintoshes and heavyweight jerseys, the second was locked and the third filled with photographs. So I knelt down and spent a happy forty minutes browsing through them.
Many were framed or pasted into albums, but some were loose in envelopes, and the bottom layer consisted of several dozen more, wrapped in the yellowing pages of an old newspaper.
Wondering yet again why yesterday’s paper should be practically unreadable, when it is destined in only a few months to exert such fascination, I looked closer and found that this one was no exception. It was part of a two-year-old copy of the East Sussex Mercury and Gazette and my eye was instantly caught by a headline which stated: “TREE FELLER DROPS ‘HOT’ POTATOES.” This was irresistible, so I opened a folding canvas chair, removed the lighter and packet of cigarettes,
which I had had the foresight to place inside the pocket of my jeans, and settled down for a good read.
“Strange,” I thought some ten minutes later, as I extinguished the cigarette and flattened the stub underfoot, “how ironical life can be!”
I had never had the least doubt that both Alan and Louise had so arranged matters as to give themselves the opportunity to make a private and thorough search through the writing desk. There was no doubt, either, that both had been inspired by the hope of coming upon a secret drawer, or finding some clue to Rosamund’s love life tucked away among the milk bills and bank statements. Whereas, if they had only put themselves to the trouble and discomfort of climbing up to the loft, a real prize might have been theirs for the taking.
However, there was no time to dwell on these solemn reflections because, while I was re-folding the chair, I heard a sound composed of a mixture of bumps and scrapes coming from the far end of the loft and, turning round, saw one corner of the wooden plank sticking up and swaying back and forth, then moving sideways to fall into place with a whack and completely cover the hole. Two seconds later the light went out.
Mindful of the fact that whoever was responsible for this outrage might have second thoughts and push the lid up again at the very moment when I was standing on it, I took the precaution of crawling over to it on my hands and knees. Having found it and pushed it to one side, I lay flat on my stomach, with my head dangling through the hole into the room below. It came as no surprise to find that it was empty, or that the ladder had been moved out of reach and the door closed. On the credit side, there was now at least enough light to enable me to find my way back to base and to replace everything in the suitcase, with the exception of one page from the newspaper.
Having made the return journey to the exit once more, I peeled off the particularly hideous dress which Louise had selected as an overall, and threw it overboard. Then I swung my legs through the hole, twisted round and hung for a moment or two, measuring the distance, before dropping unharmed to the floor. It only remained to transfer the folded page to the inner compartment of my bag and to make my way to a bathroom where, for the second time in a week, I stood in a strange house, scrubbing the dust and grime from my hands.
“What in the world possessed him to do such a thing?” Toby asked when I had give him a graphic account of my narrow escape, having dropped in unexpectedly on my way back to London.
“I really couldn’t tell you. He claims it was a misunderstanding and he was full of apologies. It seems that he’d been in the garage and came back to the workroom to fetch his jacket. He didn’t hear a sound from the loft, so concluded I’d finished the job and come down. To be fair, I was keeping pretty quiet at that point. He also claims that he did give a shout, but if so it must have been a muted one, because I certainly didn’t hear it.”
“Very thin, if you ask me.”
“And I might add that he was on the point of driving off when I made my reappearance, and Louise of course had returned to her proper territory on the first floor as soon as I was despatched to the loft, so there wasn’t a soul within earshot. If it hadn’t been for that daredevil leap to freedom, I might have been stuck up there for hours.”
“Quite extraordinary! What had you done to annoy him?”
“Ah well, that’s the question, isn’t it? But I shan’t attempt to answer it now because I have something more interesting to tell you. I believe I have found the link.”
“Oh, good! I shall try not to snap it. What link?”
“Just take a look at this,” I said, removing the wad of paper from my bag, “and tell me what you make of it.”
“I make less than nothing of it,” he confessed a few minutes later. “It appears to be a fulsomely worded article about some people called Fitzherbert having generously thrown open their magnificent garden, to raise money for the nurses.”
“That describes it perfectly. Now look at the photograph. What do you see there?”
“I see two men and two women standing together in a magnificent garden. The caption tells me that it portrays Colonel Fitzherbert chatting to Mr. James McGrath, the designer of the new aviary and water garden. I therefore assume that the old woman is Mrs. Fitzherbert and the younger one, hovering on the fringes, Mrs. McGrath.”
“Yes, of course, I forgot you’d never met her.”
“Neither did you.”
“I am not talking about Rosamund. The hoverer in that photograph is Andrea Laycock.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain. At first, like you, I assumed she was James’s wife. It’s a bit blurred, but still there is something about the way she is looking at him which gives the impression of two people who know each other well. When I looked closer I saw that it was Andrea.”
“Well, that clearly is a link and not one I should have found easy to snap. Nevertheless, I am baffled.”
“By what?”
“The light of triumph in your eye. It does not seem to be the sort of link to do much for your crusade to save James McGrath.”
“Or to halt it either. There is no setback in the discovery that he had a mistress. I daresay he’s had plenty in his time. the fact that we now have grounds for believing that at some point in her past Andrea was one of them doesn’t prove that he murdered his wife.”
“Then what does it prove?”
“I have no idea, but it must have some significance, although not the one you imply. He certainly could not have killed Rosamund in order to marry Andrea.”
“Why not?”
“Because we know for a fact that she is going to marry Marc.”
“One could argue that he has a slightly more secure future.”
“Yes, one could, and I wouldn’t put any shabby trick past that one, if she saw it as a way of getting herself out of trouble, but when she first took up with Marc no one knew that Rosamund was even dead. Besides, why would she need to marry anyone? She is in no danger of being implicated.”
“You are deceiving yourself, Tessa.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It was the wrong word. I should have said that you are being stupid, blind and arrogant.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t; I prefer the wrong word.”
“The tiresome man flattered you and you fell for it. You have now become obsessed with proving yourself right and everyone else wrong and you are starting to twist the facts into a form which suits you. Shall I tell you how I interpret them?”
“Go ahead!”
“James and Andrea meet and fall in love. They wish to marry. Andrea will not have him on any other terms and Rosamund will not let him go. When James breaks up with his partnership in Sussex he sets up a new business here because he thinks it will make it easier for him to see Andrea and keep in constant touch with her. It also has the advantage of removing Rosamund from all her former friends, to whom she will frequently wish to return, and in which he gives her every encouragement. This at least allows him spells of freedom to spend time with Andrea, but it is not enough. Andrea is becoming restless. It has begun to dawn on her that she is wasting her youth on someone who is unlikely ever to be in a position to marry her. The final blow falls for James when he sees how things are building up between her and Marc, who is not only young and well off, with the chance of a brilliant career ahead of him, but, most important of all, is not encumbered by a wife. He decides that only Rosamund’s death can release him from this intolerable situation. How about that?”
“All right, as far as it goes. It would account for some of the facts, but there are a lot you’ve left out.”
“Then allow me to finish. Having disposed of Rosamund, James hits on the clever idea of telling everyone, including Andrea, that she had left him for another man. He also tells everyone, with the exception of Andrea this time, that he is hoping she will come back. Andrea is not in love with Marc and nor is she indifferent to James. The prospects of being able to marry him and have a family are looking brighter and, bein
g the unstable creature she is, she is now inclined to switch back to him again. Which brings me to the night of the fire.”
“Oh, you’ve worked that in too, have you?”
“Indeed I have and I must tell you that, not for the first time, you have tried to make everything too complicated. Naturally, it has now become of vital importance to James that their relationship remains secret, so ways and means of meeting are just as hard to come by as ever. Hard, but not impossible, however, and on the night of the fire Andrea, who has been spending the first part of the evening with Marc, tells him that she has a headache and will drive herself home and go to bed. She does nothing of the kind. She drives herself to Orchard House and stays there until after one o’clock. I need hardly say that it never entered her head that she would be called upon to account for those missing three hours, either to Marc, or her father, or anyone else. Having to do so under oath, in a Coroner’s court, must have been punishing indeed. Still, I daresay there was an element of excitement in it too, a touch of the dangerous living which would have appealed to her. How am I doing?”
“Not bad, so far, I am bound to admit. How about the amnesia, though? Can you find a place for that?”
“With the utmost ease. Andrea never had the faintest intention of spending five minutes in a lonely cottage in the Hebrides. Her destination all along had been a lonely cottage in Wales. She and James meet by arrangement at some railway junction and he drives her the rest of the way, arriving after dark. When he hears that a dead woman had been found in Herefordshire, he realises that there is not a moment to lose in getting Andrea away. No time for elaborate plans, so they fling together this story about the amnesia. He drives her, again under cover of darkness, to the nearest large town, where she registers at an hotel under a false name and the next morning she begins the journey which will end on a park bench in a seaside resort. By this time she has conveniently remembered who she is and where she lives and within twenty-four hours of scurrying away from the sinking ship, has announced her engagement to Marc Carrington. She knows that James will never betray her. To do so would only make his motive all the stronger. There now!”
