Death at Dearley Manor, page 8
part #2 of Sukey Reynolds Mystery Series
The venom in the last phrase, accompanied by a tightening of the speaker’s jaw and a spontaneous clenching of the hands that held the shopping bag, made Sukey shudder. She had no doubt that it was Myrna who had aroused such bitter feelings. All she could think of to say was, ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘All my married life.’ They were approaching a row of cottages, slightly dilapidated in appearance in contrast to the well-maintained properties in the village. ‘The second one along has been my home for over fifty years. Though for how much longer, who knows?’
‘What do you mean?’ Even as she asked the question, Sukey remembered what Fergus had told her of Myrna’s plans and the answer came as no surprise.
‘She,’ the word, accompanied by a savage jerk of the silvery-white head, was like an angry hiss, ‘is planning to sell Dearley’s Acres for houses, hundreds of them. Says she needs the money and we’ve all got to move out.’
‘That’s dreadful!’ Sukey stopped the van and sat for a moment, taking in the panorama of fields and woodland that rolled away to the horizon. In the middle distance, the chimneys of the Manor were just visible above a stand of tall trees. ‘It would be a terrible shame to spoil this lovely countryside with a housing estate. Surely, Mrs Maxford wouldn’t want that on her own doorstep!’ For a moment, dismay at the prospective desecration of yet another beauty spot made her forget that the owner of Dearley Manor was no longer in a position to be affected by anything.
‘Maxford!’ The word was almost a snarl. ‘Reynolds was her proper married name. Didn’t even have enough respect for the poor man to acknowledge him as her husband.’ The old woman turned her head aside and her voice fell to a low mumble as she added, ‘Perhaps it was he who brought about her death!’
‘Who said anything about her being dead?’
‘Didn’t I say I saw death in the cards?’ There was a strange, almost wild look in Mrs Willow’s eyes and a throbbing intensity in her voice that sent another wave of gooseflesh rippling along Sukey’s skin. ‘And I’ve seen other signs – mark my words, there’s more evil yet to come.’
Ignoring Sukey’s exclamation, Mrs Willow almost sprang out of the van, slammed the door and marched up to her cottage gate without a word of farewell or a backward glance. Feeling utterly bemused, and more uneasy than ever on Paul’s behalf, Sukey backed the van into a field entrance, turned and resumed her interrupted journey. As she passed the gates of Dearley Manor she noticed a car waiting to leave. The driver was a woman she recognised as a reporter from a local radio station, which meant the news had reached the media. Her first thought was for Fergus. He would still be at the supermarket, but his shift ended at four and he often reached home before she did. Invariably, almost his first action was to switch on the radio and she found herself praying that today she would get there first so that she could be the one to break the dreadful news.
It was not to be. By the time she had written out her statement as DI Castle instructed and afterwards attended the scene of a burglary in Cheltenham, it was nearly half past four before she left the station and the home-going traffic was beginning to build up. When at last she turned on to her drive she found the garage open and Fergus’s bicycle propped against the wall; a slight movement behind the curtains told her that he had been looking out for her. His face as he opened the front door was white and strained and he grabbed her by the arm before she got a foot inside.
‘Mum, I’ve just heard on the radio!’ he burst out, his voice cracking with fear. ‘A woman’s been found dead at Dearley Manor – do you know anything about it? Is it Myrna?’
‘Yes, Gus, I’m afraid it is.’
‘Was she—?’ He seemed unable to utter the word ‘murdered’, but she read it in his eyes.
Gently, she closed the door and led him to the kitchen. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea while I tell you what happened. I’m feeling pretty whacked.’
He appeared almost relieved at putting off the moment of truth. ‘I’ll make it. The kettle’s just boiled.’
‘Good lad.’
The radio was still playing. The news bulletin was over; pop music filled the house and Fergus switched it off without being asked. He made the tea and poured it into two mugs he had put out in readiness. It was their normal afternoon ritual when she was on the eight-to-four shift; after their day’s work they would relax together at the kitchen table, drinking their tea, eating biscuits, exchanging news and gossip. Today, they sat in silence for several minutes; she seeking a way of minimising the fear and shock, he never taking his eyes from her face while mutely asking the question he was afraid to put into words.
At last she said, ‘This is going to be hard for you, Gus – hard for us both. As you’ve probably guessed, Myrna was murdered – stabbed. As a matter of fact, I found her.’
‘Oh, Mum, how awful for you!’
‘It was, rather,’ she admitted. Her voice trembled as the hideous memory resurfaced.
He reached across the table and grasped her free hand. She felt a lump in her throat as she looked down at the bony wrist jutting out from the sleeve of his baggy sweatshirt. She worried at times that he was too thin for his height, but the doctor assured her it was normal for a lad his age and he’d start to fill out once he’d finished growing. A gush of tears took her by surprise and he got up and put an arm round her shoulders while she fished out a hanky and scrubbed her eyes, swallowing and breathing hard in her efforts not to upset him further by breaking down.
‘She’d been stabbed,’ she said when she felt able to speak, ‘and there was rather a lot of blood.’
‘How come it was you who found her? And who do they think—?’ This time, it was Fergus’s voice that wavered and failed.
‘The police have only just begun their inquiries, but I’m afraid a lot of people are going to jump to the same conclusion.’
‘You mean, that Dad—?’ He sat down again and gripped his mother’s hand, this time seeking rather than giving comfort. At last, he was coming face to face with the horror. ‘He wouldn’t kill anyone, you know that. You must tell them, he couldn’t have done it! Mum,’ he pleaded as she remained silent, trying to think of some words of reassurance. ‘You don’t think he did it, do you? Have you seen him? What did he say?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen him and he swore to me that he didn’t kill Myrna.’
‘And you believe him, don’t you?’
Wearily, she ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I want to believe him. I told you a few days ago, I don’t think he’s capable of violence, but several people seem to think that it must have been him.’ Ezra’s words, and Mrs Little’s and Mrs Willow’s, came back with a rush. How many more times – and by how many others – would those insinuations be repeated?
‘What people?’ She hesitated for a moment and he repeated the question, urgently, staring into her face. ‘What have you heard?’
‘It seems to be common knowledge that things between Dad and Myrna had gone pretty sour,’ she said at last.
‘Who says so?’
She could only spare him so much. ‘Look, I’d better tell you the whole story, but you must promise to keep it to yourself?’
‘I promise.’
As gently as she could, avoiding the worst of the dreadful details, Sukey explained how she came to find Myrna’s body, the events that followed the discovery and the various comments she’d heard from people who had known her. ‘There’s no doubt she had a lot of enemies,’ she finished, ‘but we have to accept that Dad is going to be under suspicion. Everything I’ve heard – and no doubt a lot more besides – is going to come out and it won’t help him. Of course, forensics may find evidence that points directly to someone else, in which case—’
‘But supposing they don’t?’ Fergus broke in. ‘What if whoever did it didn’t leave any clues – or supposing they left a false trail, something to throw suspicion on Dad because everybody knew how things were between him and Myrna?’ His voice rose to a panic-stricken squeak and he almost leapt out of his chair. ‘Mum, you must do something!’
‘Now you’re just being silly. Sit down and listen to me.’ Various thoughts that had been buzzing round Sukey’s head began to settle into some sort of order. ‘The more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to believe Dad didn’t kill Myrna,’ she said as Fergus sank back into his chair. ‘He might have lost his temper with her, grabbed her, even hit her without meaning to if she really drove him so wild at times, but I don’t believe he would ever have—’ Just in time, remembering she had spared her son the agony of knowing exactly how his stepmother died, she ended, ‘—gone for her with a knife.’ Desperately casting around for something to boost the argument and counter the doubts in her own mind, she went on, ‘Especially as she was killed in her bedroom, which seems to suggest that it was premeditated.’
Fergus seized on the notion as if it were a lifeline. ‘That’s it, don’t you see?’ he said eagerly. ‘They hadn’t shared a room for ages – Mrs Little can testify to that. He wouldn’t have been there, she was probably having an affair with someone else and it went wrong. Maybe she was being as bitchy to the other man as she’d been to Dad and he wouldn’t take it.’
‘There are any number of possibilities. It’s pretty clear she had enemies, and selling that land for development was going to upset a lot of people.’
‘That’s right. Dad would know. Where is he now? You said you’d seen him.’
‘He was waiting to be interviewed.’
‘Does that mean—?’ Fergus’s eager expression changed back to one of apprehension. ‘He hasn’t been arrested, has he? Have you told me everything?’
‘Now don’t get wound up again. The police will have to question loads of people – everyone who was at last night’s party, for a start. The inquiry has only just begun. I’ve had to make a statement as well because I found the body, but I’m out of it now because of my connection with the family.’ Sukey heard the note of irony that crept into her own voice. ‘Jim was the first CID officer on the scene and he was in charge when I left, but I shouldn’t be surprised if they give the case to someone else for the same reason.’
‘So we won’t know what’s going on?’
‘Not officially. I might be able to worm a bit more information out of Jim than is officially released, but—’
The telephone rang as she spoke. For a few moments the pair of them were transfixed, staring first at the instrument and then at one another as if afraid of what they might hear. Then Sukey picked it up and said, ‘Hello.’
‘Susan?’ It was Paul’s voice and he sounded distraught.
‘Susan, I need your help… I must see you.’
Nine
‘Where are you?’
‘At the cottage.’
‘What cottage?’
‘One of Myrna’s holiday cottages. I spent last night here. Your people left it in a terrible state—’ A trace of peevish indignation overlaid the fear and anxiety in Paul’s voice. ‘They practically tore the place apart. What were they looking for, for God’s sake?’
‘A weapon, bloodstained clothing—’
As she spoke, Sukey caught Fergus’s eye and read the mute question. Dad, she mouthed at him.
He reached out a hand. ‘Let me speak to him, please!’
‘In a moment. Paul?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why do you want to see me? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing so far – I mean, I haven’t been arrested, but
I’ve been asked so many questions and I don’t think that detective friend of yours believes half what I told him. Can I come and see you?’
‘No!’ The last thing she wanted was for Paul to be at the house if Jim should call round. She was half prepared for him to start arguing, but he seemed unsurprised by her refusal.
‘Then, will you come here? Susan, I must talk to you… you’re the only person who can—’
‘Where is this cottage?’
‘There’s a turning to the right about half a mile past the main gate to the Manor – Dearley’s Acres Lane.’
‘Where Pussy Willow lives?’
‘That’s right – how did you know?’
‘I gave her a lift home this afternoon.’
‘I see.’ Paul sounded taken aback by the information, but made no further comment. ‘OK, a mile or so past her cottage there’s another turning to the left with a sign pointing to Dearley Holiday Homes – they’re barn conversions a couple of hundred yards or so along and mine’s the one on the left as you drive in. It’s a first-floor flat actually, with parking space underneath – you’ll see my car there. What time can you get here?’
‘Hang on a minute, I haven’t said I’m coming yet.’ The stress of the day was beginning to take its toll. More than anything, Sukey wanted an early supper, a relaxing bath and bed. ‘Why can’t we talk over the phone?’
‘It’s not the same… please, Susan.’
Touched by the desolation in his voice, she relented. ‘All right, I’ll be along later. Have you had anything to eat?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Neither have we. I’ll come over after we’ve had our meal. Why don’t you pop out to a pub somewhere and get a bite in the meantime?’
‘I thought of doing that, but I couldn’t face it, everyone would be looking at me.’
‘Why should they? You can go to a place where no one knows you.’
‘I told you, I can’t face people, not yet.’
‘Isn’t there any food in the cottage?’
‘Only a tin of baked beans and a packet of biscuits the last tenant left behind. I don’t suppose you—?’
She knew from experience that the way he left the question unfinished was quite deliberate. Remembering how in times gone by he had expected her to understand and sympathise with his predicament over his passion for Myrna, with hardly a thought for her own hurt, she hardened her heart and said briskly, ‘Well, that’ll keep you from starvation if you really can’t face going out. Fergus and I haven’t had our meal yet so it’ll be an hour or so before I’m free to leave. He’d like a word with you, by the way.’
She held out the receiver to Fergus; he grabbed it and began gabbling in a voice hoarse and unsteady with emotion. ‘Dad, I don’t care what the police think, I believe in you, I’ll never believe you killed Myrna.’ There was a short pause and then he said, ‘Dad? Dad, are you there?’ Slowly he replaced the instrument and looked at his mother in hurt bewilderment.
‘What did he say?’ she asked.
The boy’s eyes were clouded with tears and a sob almost choked him as he replied, ‘He just said, “Thanks, son”, and hung up.’
A large rock, painted white with the words ‘Dearley Holiday Homes’ picked out in black, was embedded in a sloping grassy bank alongside the entrance to a paved courtyard and a cluster of stone buildings that had once been the busy heart of a working farm. It was obvious that no expense had been spared in turning the ancient barns into modern dwellings; there were genuine Cotswold tiles on the roofs, the walls had been skilfully cleaned and repointed and the doors and window-frames were of solid timber. Two of the units were single-storey cottages that had probably once housed sheep; now, they sported chintzy curtains behind leaded windows and hanging baskets full of geraniums. Tourists’ cars, one bearing a foreign number plate, stood outside the varnished front doors.
Sukey parked her elderly Astra beside Paul’s showroom-bright Jaguar in a covered space which, long ago, would have sheltered carts and agricultural implements. Overhead, some original oak beams had been retained and incorporated into the structure of a first-floor apartment which was entered by a door in the far corner. As she got out of the car, a swallow flashed past her head and vanished into the shadows. Peering upwards, she made out several of the mud nests clinging to the walls and felt a twinge of pleasure that modern development had not driven the birds from their ancestral home.
The door opened. Paul appeared and beckoned her into a tiny hallway. With one hand on the latch, he peered out into the gathering dusk.
‘Are you expecting anyone else?’ she asked.
‘Not expecting. Dreading.’ He closed the door, dropped the safety catch and switched on the light. His face was grey and drawn and there was a livid scratch running from just below his right eye to the corner of his mouth.
‘Whatever happened to your face?’ she asked.
‘Oh, that!’ He gave a grim smile and touched the wound for a second with an unsteady hand before climbing the narrow staircase with Sukey at his heels. At the top was a square landing with three doors leading off it. He opened one and gestured to her to enter. ‘That hell-cat Leonie,’ he said. ‘She went for me in front of Inspector Castle, accusing me of killing Myrna, “like you said you would”, she kept screeching. Needless to say, the inspector found that very interesting,’ Paul finished bitterly. ‘His manner changed after that and I’m sure he suspects me, especially after the business with the keys.’
‘What keys?’
‘My keys to the house. You remember, I had to ring the bell because I’d left them in my briefcase? That is, I thought I’d left them. I told the inspector they must be in there and he made me open the case and look.’
‘And they weren’t there?’
‘No, they were here all the time, on the floor under the bed. One of the policemen found them when the place was being searched. They must have fallen out of my pocket when I undressed and I suppose I kicked them out of sight without noticing—’
