“Vulnerable? In what way?”
But she saw Quiller wasn’t going to answer that straight away. He took out a cigarette case, and she waited while he lit a cigarette and inhaled.
“You and your husband are getting quite a reputation for this amateur ‘sleuthing’, aren’t you?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“It’s rather a good story, isn’t it? Perhaps I should write it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your story, Kat Reilly.”
“I don’t have a story.”
“But you do. Imagine this: daughter of Bronx barman teams up with English aristo to solve crimes. The Bargirl and the Baronet. Oh, I like that. I could sell that.”
“Mr Quiller, I’m just an average woman—”
“Do come on, Lady Mortimer. Hardly average. And now I come to think on it, your father wasn’t just a barman, was he? Spent time in jail himself, didn’t he?”
Kat took a deep breath. This interview was going nowhere she’d expected. Quiller knew far more about her past than she could have imagined.
“He did. And that’s no secret. Early days of prohibition. Happened to a lot of hardworking people. Not a crime in my book.”
“Oh, very good. ‘Not a crime’, the Lady says. I must remember that. I’ll use it.”
“You can have it,” she said, smiling, but inside feeling daggers. “For free.”
Kat stared at Quiller, telling herself to stay calm and not rise to the bait.
“Can I get you another coffee?” she said, rising from the table.
“Oh – interview not over?”
Apparently Quiller thought he had adequately rattled her.
Guess what? I don’t rattle so easily, thought Kat.
“Not quite.”
“Gosh, you Americans. So relentless,” Quiller said, doing his best to mimic a New York accent.
Does the word “loathe” apply here? Kat wondered.
“Aren’t we just,” she said.
Kat picked up her cup and headed back to the breakfast room, trying to figure out how to break through this man’s defences.
What’s his weakness? Maybe… flattery?
Worth trying.
*
“All pretty low-grade stuff to be honest,” said Palmer, putting the pile down a couple of minutes later. “What about the rest of the room? Anything?”
“Not so far. But perhaps you can help me?”
Together they checked absolutely everywhere in the room, lifting the pillows, mattress, emptying and re-packing Carmody’s weekend bag.
“That’s it, I think?” said Palmer.
Harry looked around the room.
“I believe so.”
He watched as Palmer picked up the copy of David Copperfield and flicked through it.
“This one? Tad ‘heart on the sleeve’ for me,” said Palmer. “Not big on blatant sentimentality. Though credit to old Dickens – he gets parliament right. Wait. Hang on—”
Harry watched as an envelope fluttered to the ground at Palmer’s feet. The MP reached down, picked it up and removed a single sheet of paper from the envelope.
“Good God,” he said. Then he handed it to Harry, who read it out loud.
“Meet me by the grotto at midnight, to learn urgent things that will be to your advantage. A friend.”
“What on earth does this mean?” said Palmer.
“It means, I’m afraid, that – quite likely – our suspicions are right. Carmody’s death wasn’t accidental.”
“God, you mean the man was murdered?”
Harry nodded. “Could be. But to prove that, I’m afraid we are going to need more than this note.”
“You’d best keep it, Sir Harry,” Palmer said, suddenly compliant, his edge gone. “I mean, for your investigation. You’ll need it.”
Harry held his hand out for the envelope, and Palmer, after a pause, handed it over. Then Harry folded the note, put it in the envelope and slipped it in his jacket pocket.
9. A Reason to Murder
Kat returned to the table on the terrace, Quiller sitting, legs crossed, chin resting on one hand.
Supercilious, that’s the word to describe him, thought Kat. Louche.
But also – perhaps – dangerous.
She sat, placed her coffee on the table.
“Of course, Mr Quiller, if you wanted to tell my life story, you’d need me as a consultant.”
“Unpaid, you mean?” he said, looking surprised.
“Unpaid? I don’t think so,” she said, smiling.
“Oh, you are something special, aren’t you?” he said, smiling back.
“You scratch my back.”
“Even a Lady needs a little pocket money?” he said.
“Always. And of course, if ever Sir Harry and I come across any little society snippets that you might find useful…”
“Well then, I’m sure a fee can be found,” said Quiller.
“I prefer ‘like for like’,” said Kat. “Cash is so vulgar.”
“Can be arranged. Knowledge is power, as somebody once said.”
“I think you’ll find it was Francis Bacon.”
“Touché. Imagine that! A Yank teaching me my own history.”
Though Kat was spinning him a line, she suddenly thought – a well-placed, unscrupulous newspaper hack might in fact be useful to have in her pocket.
Never know when a journalist might come in handy.
And though she had disliked the man instantly, when did that ever get in the way of a straightforward business arrangement?
“Back to Mr Carmody. You were going to tell me more,” said Kat.
“Um, sorry,” said Quiller. “No can do.”
“But you know something?”
“That I do. But at the moment, you see, I’m running on Mr Forsyth’s meter – not yours.”
“So, let me guess. You were doing something with Carmody?” said Kat. Then she realised. “No, wait, oh I get it! You were on Palmer’s case. That right?”
“No comment.”
Kat laughed.
“Fair enough. Guess we’ll just have to talk to your boss the organ-grinder.”
“You’ll be lucky,” said Quiller. “Forsyth’s barricaded himself in his room, from what I gather. Terrified the killer’s going to strike again.”
“But you’re not scared too?”
“I’m just the messenger. Contrary to popular belief, in my experience messengers don’t often get shot.”
Kat took a sip of coffee, then changed tack.
“You write gossip columns, society articles, yes?”
“Please, Lady Mortimer. I’m a respected investigative journalist.”
“Oh, my apologies. Of course. You just happen to spend your life at society events among the rich and famous… who often turn out to be scandalous as well.”
“It’s where the stories are.”
“And did you find any stories here last night?”
At that, Quiller paused. His guard quickly back up.
“Nothing I didn’t know already.”
“Such as?”
Quiller smiled.
She watched him scan the other guests sitting further down the terrace, then the ones back in the breakfast room. Then he turned back to her, his eyes gleaming, as if with the pleasure of the secrets he held.
“The Sawyers,” he said, nodding discreetly to where the couple sat some twenty yards away.
“Yes?”
“Dear Douglas – once the darling of housewives worldwide – has just been summarily dropped by his studio.”
“Really?”
“Celine doesn’t know yet. Idiot hasn’t told her. Hence the regular glasses of fortifying spirits which – so far – do not seem to be working.”
“Why’s he been dropped? I thought he was a big star.”
“Was is the operative word. You heard him speak?”
“Oh, right. A little thin, squeaky…”
“Exa
ctly. This is the age of the talkies. Heroes have to sound like heroes.”
“I thought they could fix that in the recording.”
“Oh, they might,” said Quiller. “Fixing the shakes? That’s a little harder.”
“Likes his drink a bit too much, huh?”
“Not all he likes, if the rumours are right.”
“Dope too?” said Kat.
“You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Serious?”
A nod. “Word is, yes.”
“Does Celine know about that?”
“Doubt she could miss it. But also doubt she’s bothered, the circles she moves in,” said Quiller, taking out a cigarette case and lighting up. “Very tolerant crowd. Debauched, some might call it. Be a different kettle of fish when she hears he’s blown the movie career.”
“She’ll walk out on him?”
“For sure.”
“For somebody else?”
“For Palmer of course.”
“But she hardly knows him.”
“My dear Kat – may I call you that? – half London knows the pair of them have been at it like rabbits all year. It’s an open secret.”
“Otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me?”
“Exactly.”
Kat sat back in her chair.
So, the dancing on the ship had led to trysts in London. Celine had lied to her about hardly knowing Palmer.
Not surprising, given that her husband was in the room. But she had told that bare-faced lie with ice-cold skill.
Something to keep in mind.
And on top of everything, Sawyer was a drug addict whose life was about to blow apart.
She looked down the terrace to where the Sawyers still sat.
Celine was looking straight back at her.
Staring.
Kat smiled and nodded to the singer, but Celine’s expression didn’t alter. If anything, it hardened.
Uh-oh, thought Kat. Looks like she knows Quiller’s dealing me the dirt.
She turned back to the journalist.
“Did you see Carmody at all last night?” she said. “Dressed as a monk.”
“Of course I did,” said Quiller, after a pause. “Well… across the room.”
“Did you talk to him?”
Again, another pause.
“No.”
“You didn’t notice him looking unwell?”
“No.”
“Or going outside?”
“I saw him heading upstairs, at one point. Think that’s the last time.”
“Anyone else look suspicious? Out here in the grounds? Later?”
Kat saw Quiller pause again, frown.
“You might be on Forsyth’s dollar, Mr Quiller,” said Kat, “but if this does turn into an official police investigation you’re going to have to reveal what you saw.”
Quiller stubbed out his cigarette – then Kat saw him look around, as if to check again that nobody was eavesdropping.
“All right,” he said. “But this didn’t come from me, you hear?”
“Go on.”
“About eleven, party going strong, I came outside, onto the lawns.”
“A little snooping, hmm?”
“I prefer to think of it as taking the temperature of the party. Anyway. Pretty dark, not much of a moon. Flares all dying down, you know. And across the terrace – right here where we’re sitting – I saw the Plague Doctor – scurry across, head down, walking fast towards the lake.”
“The Plague Doctor. You mean Palmer?”
Quiller shrugged: “Far as I know – he was the only Plague Doctor invited.”
Kat stared at him.
“You realise what you’re suggesting?”
“I’m not ‘suggesting’ anything. I’m just saying what I saw.”
Kat looked away, thinking.
Palmer the MP, Palmer the possible future Prime Minister, had gone down to the lake at just the time when his private secretary had died in mysterious circumstances.
“Did you tell Mr Forsyth what you saw?”
“Sorry. No comment.”
No wonder Quiller was being circumspect about what he said.
And no surprise either that Forsyth had locked himself in his room.
Palmer was one of the most powerful people in the country.
Was it possible that he was involved in Carmody’s death?
Or worse…
Had Palmer himself actually murdered him?
*
Harry came down the small staircase to the first floor, having left Palmer to change out of his riding gear.
He needed to find Kat, tell her about the mysterious assignation.
But first, perhaps Forsyth was finally up and about?
He walked along the landing, past the main guest rooms, then stopped at what he knew from Benton was Forsyth’s room.
Tapped on the door. No answer.
“Mr Forsyth? Mr Forsyth? It’s Sir Harry Mortimer. I need a quick chat with you. Forsyth?”
No answer from within. Harry sensed Forsyth was still in there. But if the publisher didn’t want to talk, Harry knew he was going to have to wait.
He turned and went back down the landing.
At the foot of the staircase, however, he stopped, hearing loud voices from below stairs.
McLeod’s voice in particular. The man’s Scottish brogue was like the deep rumbling of a rockfall in the highlands.
None too happy.
Harry was always reluctant to step in when there was a problem with the staff; Mydworth Manor, though officially his by inheritance, was Aunt Lavinia’s domain.
But on a day like this, when, well, who knew what was happening, he felt it was perhaps his duty.
He turned and headed quickly down the narrow staircase that led to the kitchens, hearing the voices getting louder, a full-on argument in progress…
At the door to the kitchens, he stopped. Benton and Mrs Woodfine the housekeeper were attempting to restrain McLeod, as the cook raged and spluttered at the kitchen staff, most of whom seemed to be cowering in a corner.
On the stoves behind him, pans were bubbling – lunch clearly in mid-preparation – but all cooking activity appeared to have stopped.
“I say,” said Harry, in the calmest voice he could summon. He saw the trio stop instantly – McLeod’s mouth still half-open, mid-curse. “Anything I can do to help?”
*
Kat was sitting alone in the library when she saw Harry go past down the main corridor.
“Harry, darling,” she called – and his smiling face reappeared at the door.
“Aha!” he said, entering and shutting the door behind him. “How lovely and peaceful.”
He came over, gave her a kiss on the cheek and then flopped in the armchair next to hers.
“Tough time ransacking Mr Carmody’s room?” said Kat.
“Actually, I’ve just gone two rounds with McLeod and Mrs Woodfine in the kitchen.”
“Ouch.”
“Indeed. Seems one of the young staff, hired for the party, just ran for the hills last night, not to be seen again. Leaving McLeod’s oysters unshucked.”
“Interesting.”
She saw him lean forward, face more serious.
“Isn’t it? Curious thing is – I came across the lad myself last night. Nervous as hell, carrying a clasp knife around.”
“In the kitchen?” said Kat, surprised. “For shucking?”
“Not that kind of knife. Apparently usually works on the fishing boats. That’s why Mrs Woodfine hired him, shucker extraordinaire. But that knife… Been at the back of my mind.”
“What time did he disappear?” said Kat.
“Last seen around midnight.”
“After Carmody died.”
“Exactly.”
“You thinking – somehow – he’s a possible suspect?”
“Don’t know,” said Harry. “But it’s yet another odd thing from last night that doesn’t quite smell right.”
“Todd.”
“He local?”
“Littlehampton. About half an hour away.”
“We should talk to him.”
“I agree,” said Harry. “In the meantime, look what I found in Carmody’s room…”
He removed an envelope from his jacket pocket, took out a note and handed it over. She read it, handed it back, then listened as Harry recounted his search and his meeting with Palmer.
“So, it was actually Palmer who found this note – and he handed it to you?” said Kat.
“He did,” said Harry. “Why? Is that important?”
Kat now told him about her chat with the Sawyers – and with Quiller.
“Gosh,” said Harry. “So Quiller says he saw Palmer go down to the lake?”
“Apparently. Though I know I saw Palmer in the house when we finished dancing. Remember? Playing billiards.”
“That’s right. It’s possible he’d been down at the lake – then quickly slipped back into the house.”
She saw Harry shake his head at that.
Right, she thought, doesn’t seem possible.
“Easy enough to find out,” Kat said. “Talk to the people he was playing with.”
“Still doesn’t make any sense though, does it?” said Harry. “If Palmer went down to the grotto intending to do Carmody harm, why show me the note? If he’d written it, he could have just pocketed it – I wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Could be a clever double bluff?” said Kat. “After all, he must have known you’d find it in the book eventually. And he may have even come to the room to hunt for it himself. Then, what better way to look innocent—”
“Than to find it, and give to me? Could be. And last night down at the lake, he certainly kept it quiet that he was there earlier.”
“He’s not the only one not telling all. I think Celine knows a lot more than she’s revealed. She looked pretty nervous when she saw me talking to Quiller. Seems everybody’s lying.”
“But here’s the thing, Lady Mortimer – which I am sure you have already taken note of – nobody’s got a clear motive.”
“Well, Forsyth obviously thinks Palmer does. But we’re not going to know why until we talk to him,” said Kat. “And that’s not going to be anytime soon.”
“Not until after lunch, I suspect,” said Harry. “Which suits me down to the ground. I’m actually rather peckish. You?”
Mydworth Mysteries--Murder wore a Mask Page 5
