‘How in the world did you uncover all this in such a short time?’ asked Melissa.

  Bruce smirked. ‘Contacts – and luck. Edmund Lanyon was very helpful, and so was Celia Patterson.’

  ‘Who is …?’

  ‘Co-warden with husband Conrad at the hostel. Celia never took to Evelyn/Eloise, said she was too full of airs and graces, especially after her spell in London.’

  ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘Eloise turned up at the hostel one day with the news that she’d arranged for Arnie to use a studio at Blackwater Hall, where he could paint all day and every day to his heart’s content. They’d provide the materials and sell his paintings to raise money for AFTER. He’d continue to live at the hostel and – here’s an interesting titbit – his expenses there would in future be paid by the Asser Foundation.’

  ‘Who’d been paying them up to that point?’

  ‘Arnie’s father, Tom Barron – very grudgingly, it seems. He hardly ever came to visit his son, but he made a point of calling in to assure Celia and Conrad that he approved of the new arrangement. ’

  ‘Tom Barron,’ Melissa mused, recalling Gloria’s comments. ‘I wonder if he’s in on the scam … assuming there is a scam. Gloria hinted that he isn’t exactly squeaky clean.’

  ‘I can confirm that. I got one of my ex-colleagues in the Force to check him out. No actual form; they questioned him in connection with a country house robbery a few years back, but no charges were ever brought. They reckon his lifestyle is a little more luxurious than his business would seem to support – he runs a second-hand car and car-hire business – but so far they haven’t managed to get anything to stick.’

  ‘You’re suggesting he’s getting a cut from whatever Gerard and Eloise are up to?’

  ‘It looks that way, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose.’ Melissa lifted a forkful of pasta to her mouth and thought for a moment while chewing it. ‘On the face of it, there’s nothing illegal about the arrangement, and Arnie’s pictures couldn’t possibly command enough to make a three-way split worthwhile. You heard what Iris said.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ At this point, Bruce’s enthusiasm over what he had discovered seemed to lose its edge. ‘That’s the missing bit of the jigsaw,’ he admitted. ‘There is something shady going on at Blackwater Hall, I’m sure of it. The lifestyle, the clothes, the cars … everything points to it. Oh, one thing more. I had another chat with Damian.’

  ‘More sympathy?’

  ‘On the contrary, felicitations – he and his lover have made it up. As it happens, he was most appreciative of my sensitivity and understanding, said it had helped him get things in perspective.’

  ‘Well done. Your editor should make you the Gazette’s agony uncle.’

  Bruce’s bright blue eyes twinkled at Melissa over the rim of his glass. ‘Thanks for the suggestion – I’ll put it to her. Damian had several interesting things to say. First, Arnie is normally taken to Blackwater in a car driven by one of his father’s employees, but now and again the old man does the chauffeuring. When he does, he parks in Gerard’s private garage, which has a direct entrance to the flat – he lives on the premises – and sometimes stays an hour or even longer.’

  ‘Looking after his son’s interests?’ suggested Melissa. ‘Collecting his commission, that sort of thing?’

  ‘You’d think that would be arranged through the office. I haven’t met Tom Barron, but from what I hear he isn’t the type that snooty Gerard Hood would invite in for a cosy chat.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The people who clean the gallery look after Gerard’s flat as well. There’s a room in it that’s kept permanently locked, but no one thought anything of it until one of the cleaners went up there on a different day from her usual one and said there was a sound of hammering coming from the locked room. It seems Gerard heard the vacuum cleaner going and came charging out, demanding what the hell she was doing there and practically ordering her out.’

  At mention of the word ‘hammering’, Melissa looked up sharply. For the first time during Bruce’s recital, something clicked in her brain. ‘What sort of hammering was it?’ she asked.

  Bruce looked puzzled. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Was it bang-bang-bang, as in nailing down floorboards, or a light tap-tap-tap?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Does it matter?’

  ‘It might be the missing piece of the jigsaw … or one of them. Can you find out?’

  ‘I suppose Damian might know, or maybe I could track down the employee concerned, but won’t you tell me what this is about?’ He put on his most winsome, appealing expression. ‘Fair’s fair – I’ve told you all I know.’

  ‘Which is very interesting, but doesn’t amount to anything like evidence of a scam.’

  ‘Melissa, I think you’ve been holding out on me.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ she admitted. She glanced round; every table in the place was occupied and the noise level made it reasonably certain that nothing they said would be overheard, but she felt suddenly uneasy. The conviction that Iris was right was growing in her mind.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘This could be something much bigger than anything you’ve suggested so far.’ Briefly, she outlined Iris’s theory about the use Gerard Hood was making of mulberry tissue and the possible implications concerning Leonora Jewell’s death. Bruce’s eyes saucered and his mouth pursed into a soundless whistle.

  ‘That’s amazing!’ he exclaimed, then lowered his voice. ‘How do we prove it?’

  Melissa shrugged and shook her head. ‘You tell me.’

  Bruce leaned across the table wearing the eager expression of a terrier that has heard someone say ‘Walkies!’

  ‘For starters,’ he said, ‘we must see what’s in that locked room.’

  ‘We?’ She stared at him in alarm. ‘I thought I made it clear that I didn’t want to know about action …’

  ‘Come on, you as good as admitted we’ve no evidence. Why don’t we try and get some?’ His face lit up in a grin that gave him the look of a schoolboy plotting mischief. ‘Think of it – we might find a mulberry sandwich to hand over to the fuzz!’

  Melissa put her hands over her ears. ‘I’m not listening. Why don’t we just tell the police? I tried all weekend to contact Ken Harris, but I heard yesterday he’s in hospital, recovering from an operation. Inspector Holloway seems to be handling the investigation into the Quarry Cottage killing, but he and I don’t exactly hit it off. I take it you know him?’ she added, as Bruce made a face like someone sucking a lemon.

  ‘Do I ever?’ he said with a mock groan. ‘He’s a good enough detective, I suppose, but his pernickety ways get a lot of backs up. I’m not surprised you don’t want to talk to him. So, are you game?’

  She made a helpless gesture. ‘I’m not promising anything. You go ahead by all means if you want to poke around. Find out what sort of hammering Gerard does in his locked room and let me know. Maybe, by then, Ken Harris will be well enough for us to talk to him about it. Thanks for the lunch, Bruce. I must be going.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Outside, just as they were parting, another thought struck Melissa. ‘While you’re at it,’ she said, ‘try and find out the last time Tom Barron called on Gerard Hood.’

  Seventeen

  Melissa drove home feeling confident that she had managed to avoid becoming embroiled in what could be a very dodgy enterprise. With luck, it would take Bruce a day or two to track down and question the person who had overheard Gerard Hood at work in the locked room. Today was Tuesday; if she could stall until the weekend, Ken Harris should have been transferred to a local hospital and be well enough to be told of their suspicions. She was confident that he would take them seriously, despite the lack of concrete evidence. Besides, having something stimulating to think about might relieve the tedium of hospital life.

  By the time she reached home, however, her confidence in Iris’s theory, temporarily reawakened, had once more begun to dwindle. She told herself that even if the sound the cleaner had overheard had been made by Gerard mounting artists’ canvas on to stretchers, it did not prove that a stolen picture was being concealed. It was quite possible that he had set up a small workshop in the flat and did other odd jobs there, such as making and repairing frames. It would be natural to keep the room locked to prevent fragile items and materials being disarranged or damaged by a carelessly wielded duster … but in that case, why the concealment, why the agitation at being overheard? And supposing, just supposing, that Tom Barron’s last visit to Blackwater had been on the same day as their own, would that turn out to be an innocent coincidence as well … or could it be part of an ingenious scheme whereby stolen works of art were disappearing into thin air?

  Leave it, she told herself firmly as she steered the Golf through the narrow lane that snaked downhill into Upper Benbury. If Bruce wants to ferret around, let him. It’s his job. Get on with yours and stay out of trouble.

  She pulled up outside the village shop, noting with distaste that Sinbad, Major Ford’s dog, was tethered outside. Its owner was inside, counting small change into Mrs Foster’s palm; when Melissa entered he gave a broad smile of welcome, displaying uneven, nicotine-stained teeth.

  ‘Hah! Mrs Craig, good afternoon! Turning jolly cold, eh! D’you think we’re going to have snow?’

  ‘Not according to the forecast,’ she replied.

  ‘Huh! Weather forecasts! Load of mumbo-jumbo,’ snorted the Major. He gathered up his stick, a string bag containing a carton of milk and a few onions, and the tweed cap that replaced the battered panama he wore from May to September. ‘What’s the latest about the Rillingford Manor robbery, then?’ Faded, slightly bloodshot eyes fixed hopefully on Melissa’s. ‘Haven’t your pals in the Force caught anyone yet?’

  ‘I’ve really no idea,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t been following it in the paper, I’m afraid.’

  He leered and wagged a playful forefinger. ‘Official secret, eh? Won’t press you, haahaahaa!’

  He departed and Melissa turned to Mrs Foster with a sigh. ‘I wish I could convince him I’m not some kind of Mata Hari who can worm secrets out of police officers,’ she complained.

  ‘Ah, that comes of writing all that stuff about crime and criminals,’ said Mrs Foster. ‘And having friends in high places, of course,’ she added with a flicker of her pink eyelids.

  ‘That’s a myth invented by the Major,’ Melissa replied firmly, wondering whether it had been a shot at random or whether the all-seeing eyes of Madeleine and Dudley Ford had spotted her in DCI Harris’s company. They might have recognised him from an appearance on the local television, being questioned about some crime currently in the news. Deducing from Mrs Foster’s knowing smile that she shared the Fords’ convictions, Melissa directed the conversation to her grocery needs, stowed her purchases in her shopping bag, paid her bill and went home.

  She was waylaid at her front door by Binkie, demanding admittance. Iris had gone to Bristol for a short stay with friends, leaving detailed instructions and a supply of his favourite food. Melissa filled his dish while he wound himself about her legs, purring hysterically, and reflected that it was just as well Iris was out of the way. She would nag her to death if she knew of the lunchtime meeting with Bruce.

  Determinedly putting everything out of her head except the task in hand, Melissa spent the rest of the day working on Deadly Legacy. She took only a short break for supper, worked until bedtime and fell asleep weary but satisfied. It rained steadily overnight and well into the following morning, but by midday the sky had cleared and, feeling the need for exercise and fresh air, she went for a solitary walk along the valley. When she returned, there was a message on her answering machine.

  ‘It was tap-tap-tap and not bang-bang-bang,’ said Bruce’s voice, ‘and there’s more. For the latest developments, call back ASAP.’

  Melissa re-set the machine and went into the kitchen to prepare a sandwich for her lunch. ‘I am not going to call back’ she informed Binkie, curled up on a blanket beside the Aga. ‘He’ll only try and drag me into some wild scheme or other.’ She put her sandwich, an apple and a cup of coffee on a tray and took them to her study. She had that morning completed the first of the three final chapters of Deadly Legacy and she read it over while eating.

  ‘Not bad,’ she said to herself when she had reached the last page. ‘Not bad at all. We’ll see what Joe and Leonora’s editor make of it.’ She printed off a fair copy, parcelled it up and set off once more to the village to post it. When she returned, there was another message from Bruce.

  ‘I know you’re there because you said you’d be working all day. I’ll be in the office till four-thirty, waiting for your call.’

  It was already a quarter past four, the sun had set and it would soon be dark. She felt jaded after so much concentrated effort and had been thinking of taking a break before settling down to the next chapter, but the prospect of an evening on her own, with both Iris and Ken away, was about as exciting as a deserted railway station on a foggy night. It wouldn’t do any harm to hear what Bruce had to say. On the other hand …

  In a state of indecision, she returned to the study and began tidying her desk, which she had left in some disorder. One of Leonora’s books slipped to the floor; when Melissa picked it up, she found herself staring at the portrait of the author on the jacket. It was her imagination, of course, but for a moment she had the impression that there was a hint of reproach in the eyes that gazed back at her.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said aloud. ‘I’m busting a gut to finish your book on time.’ Almost immediately, as if the dead woman had spoken, the response flashed into her mind: But you’re doing nothing to help find my killer, are you?

  ‘If you hadn’t called back, I’d have come round anyway,’ said Bruce as he settled into an armchair and accepted a cup of tea. Against her better judgement, Melissa had responded to his appeal and agreed to his request to bring his latest news in person.

  ‘I’m really on to something, but I need help,’ he went on.

  ‘Surely, one of your fellow newshounds …’

  ‘I’m not sharing this story with anyone. Besides, knowing you have a personal interest in it …’

  ‘What “personal interest”?’ she asked warily.

  ‘The “writing lady” that Arnie was on about – the one he said he gave a picture to – Leonora Jewell. The late novelist whose book you’re finishing.’

  ‘We don’t know for certain it was Leonora.’

  ‘Oh come on, who else would it have been? Arnie gave a picture to Leonora; she took it home, not realising that what she had was a valuable painting in disguise. Damian said that when Gerard and Eloise found out what had happened they ran around like headless chickens. They had to get it back … and make sure Leonora didn’t report the loss.’ Almost word for word, Bruce spelled out the theory that Melissa and Iris had developed over their visit to Blackwater Hall.

  When he had finished, Melissa said, ‘You really think Gerard killed Leonora?’

  ‘He had a strong enough motive. It wasn’t just a single picture that was at stake, although that would have meant a thumping loss. The whole scam was liable to be exposed.’

  ‘I admit it’s feasible, but there are other possible explanations for everything we’ve noticed.’ One by one, Melissa pointed them out and Bruce indicated, in a succession of nods, grunts and shakes of the head, that he had considered them all and rejected them.

  ‘I still think we’re on the right track,’ he insisted, ‘and I intend to have a shot at proving it.’

  Melissa gave him a suspicious look. ‘Now why do I find that statement disturbing?’

  ‘I can’t imagine. Is there any more tea in the pot?’ His face was a study in guileless innocence as he held out his cup.

  She refilled it and sat down. ‘Don’t stonewall me, Bruce Ingram. I can tell by the look in your eye that you’re up to something, so come clean. You can begin by telling me the amazing new development you’ve been hinting at.’

  ‘Okay. I paid another visit to Blackwater Hall this morning, just to check with Damian about the hammering noise.’

  ‘Why not do that by phone?’

  ‘You never know who’s listening. Besides, I had another reason for going there.’

  ‘Like, casing the place for somewhere to break in?’

  ‘Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,’ he admitted after a moment’s hesitation.

  She had known all along that this was on the cards, why he wanted her help. Her skin began to tingle.

  ‘I’ve worked out how we can do it,’ he went on.

  ‘Don’t count too much on the “we”,’ she interrupted.

  ‘All right. I’ve figured out how it can be done, but it’s a job for two and I know how you enjoy a challenge.’

  ‘I’ve risen to your challenges before and had some very narrow squeaks.’

  ‘This isn’t dangerous, honestly.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Let’s hear the story.’

  ‘Right, well, I wandered round the house and did a recce, but it was obviously going to be a tough one. Apart from the fact that there’s a sophisticated security system, the place is a rabbit warren and I’d no idea where to find Gerard’s flat if I did get in. Then I had an amazing stroke of luck.’

  ‘Well?’ said Melissa impatiently, as he paused for effect.

  ‘Like I said, Damian’s on cloud nine and he seems to think I’ve had a hand in smoothing things out, so he’s only too happy to tell me everything I want to know in return. Now, listen carefully. Point one, the cleaner confirmed that what she heard was a light tapping sound. She also caught a glimpse of the room when Gerard came storming out and said it looked like a kind of workshop. Point two, the last time Tom Barron brought Arnie to Blackwater in person was on Thursday morning …’

  ‘The day after the Rillingford Manor robbery!’ exclaimed Melissa.

  ‘Exactly. Point three, Damian overheard Eloise on the phone, booking a table for two at Le Vieux Manoir for seven-thirty this evening. There isn’t a night watchman, so the place will be empty for at least a couple of hours.’

 

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