‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. Several times. Myrna told me it was just talk, but I saw the look on his face when he said it.’

  ‘Let me get this clear. You were present and heard him threaten his wife on a number of occasions?’

  ‘No, I was only there the once,’ Leonie said reluctantly, as if the admission somehow weakened her case. ‘But I know there were other times, she told me so. She used to say he’d never touch her – said he didn’t have the balls.’

  ‘All right, tell me about this one occasion. What made him so angry?’

  ‘They’d been having a row. I didn’t hear what it was about, I wasn’t in the room when it started.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘One day last week – I don’t remember which.’

  ‘And where did this row take place?’

  ‘In her office in the house. She’d asked me to see her with some figures from the estate accounts and I could hear them arguing as I went up the stairs. I couldn’t make out what they were saying until I got close because the door was shut – it’s quite a heavy door – and then I heard him shout, “One of these days, Myrna, so help me God, I’ll take you by your beautiful neck and throttle the life out of you!” And now he’s done it, hasn’t he?’

  The policewoman was writing in her notebook. ‘Those were his exact words?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re prepared to swear to that?’

  ‘On my life. I’ll never forget them, nor the anger in his voice.’

  Leonie bit her lip and took a deep breath to check the further outbreak of weeping that threatened to engulf her.

  ‘Did he say anything else after that?’

  Caught off guard, Leonie hesitated for a fraction of a second before saying, ‘No. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘It’s important that you tell me everything you heard.’

  This time, Leonie did not hesitate. ‘I have,’ she said firmly.

  ‘All right. What happened next?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t like to go in, so I waited for a moment. It all seemed to go quiet so I decided to knock on the door. Myrna called out “Come in” and I did. Paul – Mr Reynolds – was standing at the window with his back to me. His hands were clenched and I could see he was shaking. Then he turned round and I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was white as a sheet and his eyes were staring… and he gave Myrna one blinding look of sheer hatred before he pushed past me and went out of the room.’ At the memory, Leonie felt another wave of emotion welling up inside her, but this time it was anger, not grief. In that moment she too would willingly have committed murder.

  If the policewoman noticed her agitation, she gave no sign. ‘And how did Mrs Reynolds look? Did she seem agitated?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a bit. She invited me to sit beside her at her desk while we went through the figures.’

  ‘She said nothing about the scene with her husband?’

  ‘No. I was the one who raised it. I tried to warn her to take it seriously, to lock her bedroom door at night, to try not to anger him—’

  ‘And what was her reaction?’

  ‘She just laughed and told me not to fuss. Then she kissed me on the cheek and—’ Leonie put her fingers to the spot where Myrna’s lips had brushed her face. This time, the memory was too much to bear.

  When she had pulled herself together, Jennie stood up and said, ‘Well, thank you, Ms Filbury, that’s very helpful.’

  ‘Can I go home now?’

  ‘We’ll have to see about that. There’s that little matter of the assault on Mr Reynolds – we don’t know yet whether he’ll want to press charges.’

  Leonie stared in bewilderment. ‘Press charges – against me? After he killed Myrna?’

  ‘We don’t know that it was he who killed her, but we do know you attacked him and caused actual bodily harm,’ Jennie said drily. ‘So I’m afraid we’ll have to keep you here for a while.’

  They put her in a tiny cell and locked the door. An eternity seemed to pass before they came and told her she could go.

  At the same time as DI Castle finished interviewing Paul Reynolds, Eric Dennison, Company Secretary of Maxford Domestic Fittings Limited, was eating a sandwich lunch in his Swindon office. A normally even-tempered and good-natured man, he was seething with resentment as he mulled over the events of the previous evening. A pleasantly convivial occasion – perhaps a little too convivial on the part of certain members of the party – had turned into a shambles as Myrna Maxford, Company Chairman, almost casually pulled the plug on their dreams and expectations. Eric reflected with mounting fury on the hours of discussion and paperwork that he, his fellow directors and their secretaries, to say nothing of their opposite numbers at Headwaters, had put into ensuring that the takeover went ahead smoothly – all now consigned to the dustbin.

  At least the new extension to the factory would go ahead just the same. Myrna had gone out of her way to reassure her fellow directors on this point, her clear, penetrating voice cutting through the exclamations of shock and disappointment as they and their wives absorbed the significance of her decision. Eric knew from Irene, his wife, that a lot of eagerly planned changes in lifestyle, based on the anticipated benefits from the takeover, would have to be thrown out of the window. Protests had at first been muted – Myrna’s capacity for making life uncomfortable for those who challenged or tried to thwart her decisions was well known. It was June, Bradley Ashton’s wife, who had lost control, picked up a bottle and charged at Myrna, screaming abuse. Poor old Brad, looking even more devastated by his wife’s loss of control than by the change of plans, had gabbled apologies and dragged her out of the room; in the stunned silence that followed she could be heard throwing up in the hall.

  After that, the party came to an abrupt end, with the remaining guests forcing themselves to take their leave and thank their hostess as if nothing untoward had happened. We know which side our bread’s buttered, Eric remembered thinking as they collected their coats and went silently out into the night. The thought was immediately followed by another: Why do we all let the bitch get away with playing cat and mouse with us? Why the hell don’t we stand up to her? Futile questions both, to which he well knew the answer.

  Being of a prudent and cautious nature, he had never been in the habit of considering plans for spending money until it was safely in his pocket, and he had applied the same philosophy to the anticipated windfall. “Never count your chickens before they’re hatched”, and “There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip”, he had counselled Irene every time she came home with a new brochure advertising world cruises, elaborate conservatories or indoor swimming pools. Poor Irene! He recalled her look of disbelief as she learned that it had all come to nothing.

  He could still see the almost feline smile of satisfaction with which Myrna had dropped her bombshell. For a moment he wondered whether after all the whole exercise might have been a malicious hoax. Had she been stringing everyone along, raising hopes and expectations while anticipating the moment when she would dash them to several pieces? Having worked for her for several years he knew she was capable of anything, but he dismissed the thought almost immediately. She was far too shrewd a businesswoman to deliberately waste her company’s time and money on a practical joke. Just the same, there was no doubt that she had derived a certain sadistic pleasure from the dismay and disappointment her change of heart had caused. The buzz of the telephone on his desk interrupted his musings. The middle-aged receptionist, who had worked for the company since leaving school, was calling to say that Mr Reynolds wanted to speak to him urgently. ‘I think he might be ill, he sounds a bit strange,’ she confided. ‘I said it was your lunch break and couldn’t it wait and I thought he was going to cry.’

  ‘All right, put him through.’

  There was a click and a silence of several moments before Paul said, in a hoarse, unsteady voice, ‘Eric? Is anyone with you?’

  ‘No, no one. Is something wrong?’

  ‘Have the police been in touch… are they there?’

  ‘The police? What are you talking about? Why should they—’

  ‘They’ve been here… at the Manor… questioning me… they think I killed her—’ The words jerked out in spasms, punctuated by snuffling gasps as if the speaker was being starved of air.

  ‘Killed— killed who? For God’s sake, Paul, what are you saying? What’s happened?’

  ‘Myrna… she’s dead and they think I did it… they’ll want to question everyone—’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Some time during the night. I told them I wasn’t there, but I know they don’t believe me, not after Leonie—’

  ‘What’s Leonie got to do with it?’

  ‘She went for me, told them I’d threatened Myrna. Eric, you’ve got to tell them—’

  ‘Are you saying you’ve been arrested?’

  ‘No, they let me go, but I know they’ll be—’

  ‘So where are you?’

  ‘At one of Myrna’s cottages. I spent the night here.’

  After the initial shock, Dennison’s analytical brain clicked into gear. ‘I noticed you left the party early,’ he said. ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I had to. I knew what the bitch was planning and I didn’t want—’

  ‘You knew?’ A fresh surge of anger blotted out for a second the shock of the news. ‘And you never tipped us off? You let her string us along, watched us all make fools of ourselves—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eric. I should have warned you… I wanted to, but she… you know what she’s… what she was like.’

  ‘Of course, don’t we all?’ A tigress who could purr like a domestic kitten one minute and tear your throat out the next. A witch who had all of us – Brad, Sam and me – by the balls.

  ‘Eric?’ Paul’s voice, pleading and urgent, dragged him back to the present. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here, I’m trying to think. Did you go back to the house after we all left?’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t. I didn’t go anywhere near the place. That’s what I keep telling the police, but they—’

  ‘I take it you’ve given them the names of everyone who was there?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I’m phoning. They’ll be at your place soon, asking questions. You must talk to the others, make sure they tell them I wasn’t there… Eric, please—’

  Dennison was by now only half listening to the near-hysterical babbling. His mind was busy with problems closer to home. He must get hold of the others, make sure they all told the same story – but first he had to get rid of Reynolds. ‘Listen, old chap,’ he said soothingly, ‘you stay where you are and try not to worry. Leave it with me. Have you got your mobile with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Stay with it. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘This is how we play it,’ said Dennison to his fellow directors, Bradley Ashton and Sam Perry, after putting them in the picture. ‘It was a nice, friendly gesture on Myrna’s part to throw that party – a kind of consolation prize for the disappointment she knew we must all have been feeling. We quite understood and accepted her reasons for pulling out of the takeover. There was no ill-feeling; it all went off quite amicably. She was perfectly all right when we left, all together, at around midnight. Obviously, the police will want to talk to everyone who was there so we must get on to the girls and make sure they know what to say. We let it be known that there’s been bad blood for a long time between Myrna and Reynolds – we can all quote our own observations on that score. Incidentally, you’ll have noticed I haven’t asked the obvious question. If either of you did it, I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Whoever did it, did us all a favour,’ muttered Ashton.

  No one disagreed.

  ‘D’you reckon Reynolds knows about our, er, little secrets?’ asked Perry.

  Dennison considered the question with pursed lips. ‘Unlikely,’ he said after a pause. ‘She played most things close to her chest as a matter of principle, never let one hand know what the other was up to if she could help it.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ Perry uncrossed his legs and then recrossed them, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his carefully pressed trousers as he did so.

  ‘It’s a chance we have to take.’ Dennison regarded him with ill-concealed distaste; Sam Perry’s ‘little secret’ was a particularly repellent one. ‘Anyway, he left the party early so he’s in no position to contradict our story.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked Ashton.

  ‘Haven’t you been listening? So far as the police are concerned, the line we stick to is this: She ran a tight ship, but she was a good employer; her business judgement was sound and we all respected it. We worked as a team, none of us has any conceivable motive for killing her and we’re all very shocked. Got that?’ The others nodded. ‘Brad, you’ll make sure June—’

  ‘Stays sober?’ Ashton interposed with a harsh, mirthless laugh. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘What about Hampton and Filbury?’ said Perry. ‘How will you deal with them?’

  ‘Leonie loathes Paul Reynolds and she’ll be more than happy to see him go down for killing Myrna, whether he did it or not. Hampton could be a problem, though.’ Dennison frowned and thought for a moment, then his brow cleared. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t believe he was even there when the balloon went up. I heard him say something to Myrna about having to see to a sick animal, so maybe he left early. I’ll check.’ Dennison made a note alongside the elaborate doodle he had been scribbling on his desk pad, then said, ‘The weak link, as I see it, is that old woman, Mrs Willow. She struck me as being a bit gaga.’

  ‘She is a bit gaga, according to Hampton,’ said Ashton. ‘Hears voices and sees ghosts. I noticed her a couple of times during the evening, staring into space and talking to herself. I doubt if she understood half of what was going on around her – but if she did, she could be dangerous.’ The others nodded in agreement.

  ‘We can make sure the police understand – without labouring the point – that she’s not to be regarded as a reliable witness,’ said Dennison. ‘I imagine anyone in the village would support that. But of course, there are times when she appears perfectly rational. We don’t want her throwing a spanner into the works, do we?’

  ‘What do you suggest we do?’ asked Perry.

  With a gesture that held a hint of finality, Dennison scored a thick line under his doodle and put down his pencil. ‘I think maybe I’ll go and have a quiet word with her,’ he said.

  Eight

  Sukey found a convenient place to turn the van and set off on her journey back to Gloucester. She had driven only a couple of hundred yards when she spotted the slight figure of Mrs Willow, weighed down with her shopping bag, walking slowly ahead of her. On impulse, she pulled over, wound down the window and called, ‘That looks heavy. Would you care for a lift?’

  The face that turned in response to the offer was lit up by a smile of mingled surprise and pleasure. ‘How very kind. Thank you!’ The little woman slid nimbly into the van and planted her shopping bag between her feet. She was obviously used to being in a car; she clipped on the safety belt and settled back without any hesitation or fumbling.

  ‘I live in Dearley’s Acres Lane,’ she said briskly. ‘Straight on and the first turning on the left. It isn’t very far really, but it seems a long way when I’ve got a load of shopping.’

  Sukey gave a sympathetic chuckle. ‘Gets heavier with every step, doesn’t it?’

  Mrs Willow uttered a faint, inarticulate sound. Thinking that she was probably a little hard of hearing, Sukey repeated the remark, glancing at her passenger as she did so. To her consternation, the old woman was staring at the road ahead with a glazed expression, a faint smile playing round her colourless mouth. ‘That’s what you always say, isn’t it, Albert?’ she mumbled in a faraway voice, as if she was talking in her sleep. ‘Every time you take me shopping, when you carry the bags back to the car. “Gets heavier with every step,” you grumble.’

  Sukey felt a prickle of gooseflesh and her mind went back to the scene in the shop, Mr Hadlow’s significant gesture and Ezra Hampton’s explanation for the widow’s eccentric behaviour. It was clear that the death of her husband had seriously affected her mental state. She appeared to have fallen into a light trance; her eyes were vacant and her lips continued to move, but no sound emerged.

  There was nothing that Sukey could do but drive on, hoping the spasm would soon pass. A little over half a mile further on they came to some substantial farm buildings, set well back on the right-hand side of the road. A tractor with its engine running stood in the concrete yard, which was surrounded on three sides by stone barns. A painted board proclaimed that this was the home farm and office of Dearley Manor Estate and another warned would-be intruders that the premises were protected by a security system. Next door, approached by a short gravelled drive and surrounded by a well-tended garden, was an attractive Cotswold farmhouse. Ezra’s Land Rover was parked by the front door; through the bars of a heavy wooden gate his dog watched with pricked ears as Sukey drove slowly past, looking for some indication that she was near her destination.

  At last she spotted a rough wooden sign bearing the words ‘Dearley’s Acres Lane’ hanging from a post a short distance beyond the farm. As she signalled and slowed down, a voice at her elbow said, ‘That’s it, go left here.’ A little startled, she gave her passenger a quick glance and found her looking perfectly relaxed and wide awake and plainly remembering nothing of her strange behaviour of a few minutes ago. As they bumped along the narrow, rutted lane she pointed first left and then right with a blue-veined hand, keeping up a commentary on the weather, the nature of the crops and the state of the harvest. ‘Always get a good yield from Dearley’s Acres, they do,’ she said with a note of pride in her voice.

  ‘Where did the name Dearley’s Acres come from?’ asked Sukey.

  ‘Ah, that’s an interesting story. The fields on either side of this lane were what Mr Walter Dearley started with when he settled here about three hundred years ago.’ Her manner became suddenly animated. ‘They say he inherited money from his father, who was a rich wool merchant, but all he wanted to do was farming. So he bought a few acres of land and he and his son built a house here. By all accounts they did well from the outset, grew very rich and bought a lot more land. The original fields had become known as Dearley’s Acres and the name stuck long after the family died out. The last Mr Dearley was killed in the Great War and the estate was sold… to that woman’s grandfather.’

 

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