by Eric Brown
He frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know—’
They were startled by a sudden hammering on the back door. Maria, closest to the landing, rushed downstairs, along the hall and into the kitchen. A shape moved beyond the pebbled glass, swollen out of all recognition. It raised a hand and hammered again.
She crossed to the door and pulled it open, Donald behind her.
Roy Vickers stood on the threshold. The first thing she noticed was his expression of wild-eyed shock; the second, the pair of binoculars that hung around the turned-up collar of his greatcoat.
‘Roy?’
He turned and pointed down the garden towards the manor house. ‘There! I noticed it earlier,’ he said, hardly making sense. ‘I ran to get Richard, but he’s out somewhere in the top field. So I grabbed these.’ He lifted the binoculars. ‘Look!’
He passed her the binoculars and she raised them to her eyes. ‘Where am I looking?’
‘Straight ahead. Through the trees, beyond the stream.’
‘All I can see is trees. Oh, there we are … But what’s going on?’ The image was out of focus. All she could make out was blurred images of people, a big blue van and a few cars parked behind the manor.
She adjusted the focus and the scene sprang into life. Half a dozen uniformed police officers and several plainclothes men were congregated around the standing stone and seemed to be examining something at its base.
‘The thing is,’ Vickers was saying, ‘I can’t make out Nancy among the crowd, and when I saw what was going on … I rang the manor from the farmhouse. Nancy usually answers, but there was no reply. I’m worried.’
‘Can I see?’ Donald said.
Maria passed him the binoculars and he pressed them to his eyes, adjusting the focus. ‘A few forensic fellows … and that’s Montgomery.’ He lowered the binoculars and looked at Roy Vickers. ‘Montgomery’s a detective inspector from Bury – I’ve worked with him a couple of times in the past. If he’s been called in, it’s serious.’
Vickers swore. Maria reached out and took Donald’s hand. ‘We’d better go round.’ She turned to the young man. ‘Come in while we get our coats.’
She ran off to fetch their coats and boots. They dressed quickly in the kitchen and followed Vickers from the house, not bothering to lock the back door.
They hurried along Crooked Lane, slipping and sliding in the snow. A fresh fall had come down during the night and lay across the land to the depth of a foot or more.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing to do with Nancy,’ Maria said. ‘And there’ll be a good reason she hasn’t answered the phone. It’s probably being used by the police.’
‘But it wasn’t engaged!’ Vickers shouted against the wind.
‘Even so, there’ll be a perfectly good reason, you’ll see.’
Vickers looked from Maria to Donald. ‘You said a forensic team … But they’re only used in the event of murders, right?’
Maria looked at Donald; he was grim-faced. ‘Not exclusively.’
‘Christ!’ Vickers said, increasing his pace.
Maria found Donald’s hand as they hurried after the distraught young man.
They crossed the bridge and made their way down the lane, then turned right into the drive of Standing Stone Manor.
Two squad cars were drawn up before the house, and a uniformed constable stood like a sentry before the manor’s open front door.
Nancy’s dog bounded from the house, its tail lashing in delight at seeing them. He dropped his tennis ball at Maria’s feet and looked up at her pleadingly.
‘Not now, boy,’ she said. She picked up the ball, meaning to lob it back into the house. Instead, it hit an ornamental flower urn beside the door and bounced off under Randall’s Morgan parked to the right of the house. She bent down and retrieved the ball from the gravel beneath the car. This time she succeeded in throwing it through the door and into the hall. Bill bounded into the house and the constable obligingly pulled the door shut.
She rejoined the others and they hurried on, Donald leading the way around the house. A hundred yards across the snow, the grey standing stone loomed tall against the blue winter sky. A police photographer stood beyond the stone, taking pictures of something at its foot.
‘Wait!’ Donald said, halting Maria and Vickers. ‘We’d better not trample those prints.’
He pointed to a track of footprints in the snow, leading from the French windows at the back of the house across to the standing stone. Another, fresh set of footprints formed a long curve from the side of the house to the stone. He led the way along this second path, evidently made by the investigating officers.
Maria felt suddenly sick. Three or four men in boilersuits were minutely examining the snowy ground, incongruously down on all fours.
Whatever was on the other side of the stone was hidden from view.
Detective Inspector Montgomery stood to one side, a small, bald-headed man smoking a cigarette with an air of studied detachment.
Roy Vickers stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to Maria, his expression one of fraught apprehension. ‘It’s Nancy, I know it is!’
‘What makes you think—?’
‘Because I love her! I’ve found her, and now this …’
‘Wait here,’ Donald said.
Montgomery looked up as Donald approached. ‘Langham? What the blazes are you doing here?’
The two men spoke in lowered tones while Maria and Vickers looked on.
Montgomery pointed to something on the other side of the stone, as if inviting Donald to take a look. Maria watched him hesitate, then step forward. He raised a shocked hand to his brow, then turned and hurried back to them.
‘Donald?’ Maria said, her voice catching.
Beside her, Roy Vickers was trembling.
Donald walked back to them, his face ashen. ‘It’s not Nancy,’ he said. ‘She’s fine. She’s in the house.’
Vickers swore with relief.
Maria said, ‘Then who …?’
Vickers turned and ran back to the manor.
Half a dozen scaffolding boards had been arranged to protect the crime scene. Maria stepped on to a board, rounded the stone and stared down at the body.
Professor Robertshaw sat with his back against the stone. Lying in the snow a little way from his upturned right hand was a grey service revolver. A bullet hole the size of a half-crown coin had shattered the bone of his temple. His jaw hung open and his eyes stared across the snow to the trenches a hundred yards away. A rubber-encased torch, still switched on, lay in the snow to the professor’s left.
She looked from the corpse to Donald. He was staring down at the professor, and she saw something calculating in her husband’s eyes.
‘Donald,’ she murmured, ‘do you think what happened yesterday—?’
He shook his head. ‘He was left-handed,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘The professor was left-handed. I noticed that yesterday when he poured himself a Scotch.’
She swallowed and looked at the revolver lying next to the right hand.
‘He didn’t kill himself, Maria. He didn’t take his own life in reaction to being blackmailed.’
Montgomery joined them and Donald began to explain. The detective inspector stopped him with an officiously raised hand. ‘We know that, Langham. It was pretty obvious from the outset. This is murder, plain and simple, clumsily made to look like suicide.’
‘The size of the wound?’
Montgomery nodded. ‘Forensics reckon the revolver was fired from a distance of at least three feet, and the chap’s arm isn’t that long, is it? And as you say, he was left-handed, which his son Randall verified when I questioned him.’ He pointed at the weapon lying in the snow. ‘It’s the professor’s own service revolver, according to his son.’
‘Did Randall discover the body?’ Donald asked.
‘We received a call from him at a little after six this morning.’
‘He heard the shot?’
‘Oh, the poor man,’ Maria said.
‘The fellow’s pretty shaken up, and no mistake,’ Montgomery said.
Donald gestured to the trodden snow around the body. ‘Any decent prints?’
‘Due to last night’s snowfall, not many good ones. We’ve taken snaps of a dozen partials and might make something of them. We’ll be attempting to match the prints with the footwear of locals later today.’ Montgomery finished his cigarette, was about to flick it to the ground, then thought better of it. He nipped out the burning end and slipped the butt into the breast pocket of his overcoat.
Maria heard a sound coming from the house. She turned and looked up. A window in the upper storey, just under the eaves, was wide open and a figure was leaning out and waving.
‘Maria!’ Nancy cried. Even at this distance, the girl appeared distraught.
Maria said to Donald, ‘I’d better go to her.’
‘Of course.’
She turned and hurried across to the manor.
TWELVE
The constable previously stationed at the door of the house was now leaning into the squad car, speaking into the radio handset. Maria hurried past him and slipped into the manor.
As she moved towards the stairs, she passed the open door to what she assumed was the library. Randall Robertshaw sat at the far end of a long table with a bottle of brandy before him, his chin lodged on his fist in a desolate recapitulation of Rodin’s The Thinker.
She hurried past the door and up the sweeping staircase. At the top, she found a door behind which was a narrow flight of stairs leading to what had been the servants’ quarters.
She was about to reach out for the handle when the door opened and Roy Vickers appeared.
‘You found her—?’ Maria began.
He nodded. ‘I’m going to get her a stiff drink.’
He moved past her, and she ran up the staircase.
She found Nancy in the third bedroom along a narrow landing. The girl sat on the edge of her bed in an untidy room strewn with piles of books, scattered clothing and shoes. A dressing table stood against the wall at the foot of the bed, littered with bottled perfumes, lipsticks and compacts. An old teddy bear lay on the bed beside the girl, face down, as if she had quickly discarded it on hearing Maria’s approach.
Nancy looked up when Maria appeared and halted in the doorway. Her eyes were red, contrasting with her pale face. Her golden curls were an uncombed tangle.
Maria sat on the bed and pulled the girl to her.
‘He’s dead,’ Nancy said. ‘I heard all the cars at six and came down. Randall told me. He said my uncle had shot himself.’ She shook her head as if in shock. ‘But he wouldn’t do that, would he, Maria? Why would he shoot himself?’
Maria stroked the girl’s hair, then kissed her head. She tried hard to find words that would not sound trite or crass. ‘I’m sorry. It’s terrible, but you have friends, and Roy. We’ll be here – all right?’
The girl nodded, and something in Maria’s words, or simply her presence, caused Nancy to break down and sob on to Maria’s shoulder. She held the girl tight, unable to prevent her own tears.
‘Xandra had a restless night,’ Nancy said a little later, sniffing. ‘I was with her after dinner, and she asked me to sleep in her room. She often does. I have a small camp bed made up, so I can be on hand. Xandra slept fitfully, but I could hardly sleep. Randall … when I saw Randall this morning, he said that my uncle had taken his service revolver and gone out there … Randall said the police thought he died about ten last night.’ She opened her hands, palms upwards, in a curiously helpless gesture. ‘I must have been asleep by then, and I didn’t hear a thing.’ She looked at Maria, appealing. ‘But why would he have done that? Why would he have killed himself like that, Maria? What about everyone he loved? Didn’t he think about what he was doing?’
Maria pressed her lips to the girl’s head again, not so much to comfort her as to hide her own conflicted expression.
‘Perhaps … I don’t know,’ Nancy went on, ‘but perhaps it was something Richard said to him?’
‘Richard Wellbourne?’
‘He came to see my uncle last night. I answered the door. I could tell he was angry about something. He wanted to see my uncle, so I took him through to the study.’
‘Did he want to see the professor about the disputed land?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’ She shrugged. ‘But I suspect it was something to do with that.’
‘Do you know what time Richard left?’
‘I let him in about eight, and not long after that Xandra called me. I heard raised voices shortly after I showed Richard into the study, and then I heard the French windows open and they went outside.’
‘Are you sure they went outside?’
‘I saw them, a little later, from the window on the staircase when I went up to see to Xandra. They were striding around the standing stone, gesturing to the land beyond. Maybe it was something Richard said that made my uncle …’
Her voice had risen, and Maria calmed her. ‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure that the professor had come across some deeds which stated the land belonged to him …’ She trailed off. ‘Do you know what time Richard left?’
The girl shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, no. I went back upstairs to Xandra.’
‘Did Richard come by car – did you by any chance hear it when he drove off?’
‘No, he walked. There was no sign of his car when I answered the door.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you think it important, Maria – about Richard?’
‘Perhaps he could tell the police what kind of mood your uncle was in when he left him,’ she said, her mind racing. ‘It might be of some help.’
She looked through the window. All she could make out, from this angle, was an expanse of blue sky, the tops of distant trees and the knuckled summit of the standing stone. The thought of what sat beneath it made her shiver.
She asked, ‘Does Xandra …?’
‘Randall told her, and then I gave her a sleeping draught and left her. That was about seven. What time is it now?’
Maria looked at her wristwatch. ‘Just after eleven.’
The girl exclaimed. ‘I’d better go and see if she’s awake. She’ll be in a terrible state. Oh, I don’t know how I’ll cope, Maria!’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Would you? That’s kind. She likes you.’
Maria looked at the girl, surprised. ‘She does?’
‘When you left the other day, Xandra said how much she enjoyed meeting you and Donald. She said you were a lovely person.’
Maria squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, let’s go and see if she’s awake.’
They left the tiny bedroom and made their way single file down the narrow staircase. Nancy led Maria along the carpeted landing to a door at the far end of the corridor, knocked gently, then entered.
Maria had expected to find the woman in bed, if not still sleeping then prostrated by the death of her husband. She was surprised to see Xandra up and dressed in a canary-yellow silk trouser suit redolent of the 1930s. She stood with her back to the door, staring through the window. Even at a distance, the rasp of her breathing was loud.
She failed to acknowledge their arrival, other than to say, as if to herself, ‘He didn’t kill himself, you know – it wasn’t suicide.’
Nancy stopped in her tracks, staring at her aunt. ‘What?’
Xandra turned and stared at them. Her eyes appeared sunken, haunted. ‘He wasn’t the type,’ she wheezed. ‘Egotists don’t take their own lives. Their exi
stence is too precious for that.’
Maria came to Nancy’s side and slipped an arm around her thin shoulders. Nancy sagged against her, moaning softly.
‘What do you mean?’ the girl murmured. ‘Randall said—’
‘What does Randall know about anything like that?’ Xandra said. ‘He’s a banker, not a psychologist.’
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Maria asked. ‘Perhaps a cup of tea?’
‘I’d like a bloody large brandy,’ Xandra said. She turned and stared through the window which overlooked the stream and the village beyond.
‘Xandra, I don’t think that would be a very good idea,’ Nancy said tentatively.
‘Stop being such a bloody officious little nursemaid and get me a brandy! You’ll find a bottle in the escritoire, and a glass.’
Maria murmured, ‘I really don’t think …’
‘Then I’ll help myself,’ Xandra said. She moved to the escritoire, found the half-empty bottle and poured a small measure with a shaking hand.
She knocked back half the glass, pursed her lips bitterly, then looked from Nancy to Maria. That she had once been an actress was apparent: she had lost none of her ability to hold an audience, despite her debilitation. She had presence, poise and timing. She said, ‘Everyone hated him, you know.’
She pointed to a chaise longue. ‘Sit down, both of you. And please stop staring at me as if I were a ghost.’
They sat down as ordered, and Xandra carried a hoop-backed chair from her dressing table and sat before them.
‘You don’t know that he was … was killed,’ Nancy said. ‘You’ve no evidence.’
Maria saw something supercilious in the older woman’s eyes. ‘I knew my husband, Nancy. We’ve been together for twenty years; I know what kind of man he was. He was a self-centred bigot who made enemies easily because he considered only himself and didn’t give two damns what people thought of him.’
Nancy shook her head. ‘I … I didn’t know you hated him so.’
Xandra sipped her drink. ‘I’m not sure that I did hate him. A part of me loved him – certainly in the early years. He could be a pain, but then show me the man who isn’t. What I did hate about him was how he never considered the feelings of others. He lacked the ability to empathize.’
