Portrait with Death, page 23
Wainwright’s gaze searched Flick, not Isabella. Did he think she’d somehow stolen the crumpled paper from under Isabella’s eyes?
“We were together the entire time,” she defended. “Once we covered him back up, we stepped away. He was in our view. No one could have crept over and touched anything.”
“That’s right. Flick is right.”
“It would be foolish, don’t you think,” Flick pointed out, “to give a photograph of evidence that’s now gone missing? I do bear a brain, Inspector.”
His mouth twisted. He lifted another photo, this one displaying Webberly’s hand. “What is he holding?” He looked directly at her.
Isabella leaned forward. “It’s a gold chain in his hand. We couldn’t see anything expect that little bit. He was gripping it tightly.”
“No gold chain.” The sergeant didn’t bother to flip back to his evidence list.
Flick stared at Wainwright. She didn’t think he was accusing her for no reason. The paper was missing. The chain was missing. Neither she nor Isabella had taken it. Chauncey wouldn’t. Would he? The ambulance men must have lost it, somehow, somewhere, when they picked up the body onto the board then transferred him to the gurney.
“It was there,” Isabella defended, “just like the crumpled paper was in his pocket. Since the paper and the chain are gone, then Flick was smart to take photos. Somewhere between our leaving the body and its transport to ... I don’t suppose they have a morgue in Upper Wellsford, do they? But somewhere between there and here, those items must have been jostled out and lost. They might have fallen into the grass or under leaves. Have you searched the ambulance?”
“We will.” Wainwright finally looked away from Flick. With his focus removed, she drew a slow deep breath.
“And ask your constable more questions, specifically about the paper and the gold chain.”
“The problem is that Constable Amsley, under the direction and the eye of Sir Robert, emptied Webberly’s pockets at the scene. We have the list of Webberly’s possessions. Amsley also described both hands as open and empty. Rigor didn’t set in until later. Miss Sherborne, your brother was alone with Webberly’s body, wasn’t he?”
Flick’s body seized up. She had a sudden memory of Chauncey at Christmas, asking for money when she dropped him at the train station for his ride back to Greavley Abbey. And Webberly had pushed for money, on Saturday. Chauncey promised him a paper and a surety. That gold medallion on its gold chain, a gift from Great-Uncle Tristan Allworthy, that would have fit in a closed fist. The medallion had diamonds inset and an engraving on the back to Chauncey. Gold and diamonds, good enough to pawn or sell and raise money to pay debts.
George Webberly may have held that in his hand.
The crumpled paper would have been Chauncey’s IOU.
“My brother wouldn’t take evidence,” she claimed. “Even though he was alone with the body, he wouldn’t touch it. Besides, we covered Webberly with the blanket. How would he have known the gold chain and the paper were there?”
“He wouldn’t know. Unless he had given them to Webberly that very morning. And he decided to take them back.”
Wainwright didn’t say it, but five words hung heavier than smoke.
After he killed the man.
Chapter 19
Monday, Late Afternoon
“No.” Flick’s denial was automatic. “My brother didn’t commit murder. He didn’t steal evidence.”
Yet even as she spoke, she remembered thinking how much the war had changed him. In those first week after being demobilized, when he slept on the couch in her flat, Chauncey had spoken wildly about wasted years, his broken plans, his dreams lost forever. He’d had a reckless disregard for his life and others. She’d let him drive the Calcott only once. He’d scared her so badly around pedestrians, gunning the engine to pass lorries and slower autos, that she didn’t allow him behind the wheel until last Christmas.
“Not Chauncey.” She crossed her arms, determined to do battle. “Are you accusing my brother now, Inspector?” Her mind revved up. The Masters’ Lodging had no telephone. The Prior’s House did, as did Greavley Manor, but she doubted anyone would take a message to Chauncey until morning.
DI Wainwright had aimed his sights at her brother. She had to warn him.
“You don’t think he would remove evidence that might incriminate him?”
She didn’t dare answer that. “You are accusing him,” she snapped. “Chauncey would not commit murder. He’s had enough of killing.”
“You need to focus on someone else,” Isabella chimed in. “Chauncey Sherborne is no fool. He would know that he would be blamed for taking evidence.”
“Did your brother know that you took photographs of the scene, Miss Sherborne?”
Curses. There was the weakness. “No, he did not.” Oh God, it could be true.
“We also have a statement from the vicar.” The sergeant’s flat tone revealed the words would be damning. “He says your brother, the young dark-haired teaching master, wearing a dark robe, the one serving as beadle for the service, left during the singing. He returned after communion had started, a few minutes after, before everyone came up for the bread and wine. That description only fits Mr. Sherborne.”
“Oh God,” she breathed then stood up. The inspector was building a case against Chauncey. She shouldn’t sit here and let him.
“Where are you going, Miss Sherborne? To ring your brother? Warn him?”
“I’m going to be sick,” she lied. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she rushed from the lounge and hurried upstairs.
In her room, she looked wildly around. What to do? What to do? Then she seized her coat and her tote. Her hand dove deep, searching for the key that would unlock the ignition.
Can I warn him?
I must.
Flick knew Inspector Wainwright wouldn’t approve of what she was going to do. He might arrest me. Obstructing his investigation. Accessory after the fact.
She didn’t care. It was Chauncey. He didn’t do it.
He couldn’t have.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Callaway glanced at the door. “You want me to watch her, sir?”
Michael chose to consult Isabella. “Will she warn her brother?”
“They are very close. I don’t know if she will.”
“How well do you know Felicity Sherborne?”
“We met Saturday evening, before dinner.”
“You don’t know what she’s capable of, then. And her brother?”
“I met him less than an hour after I met Flick. She can’t ring him. The only telephones at Greavley are in the manor and in the Prior’s House. Do you really believe Chauncey Sherborne killed George Webberly?”
Michael shrugged. “Evidence is missing.”
Yet Isabella knew that the vague gesture hid his actual interest in Chauncey Sherborne as a chief suspect.
Would Chauncey have a good reason for leaving the service? For taking evidence? Without a credible explanation, Michael would arrest him.
“Have you determined—?” She stopped, for Sibby came in, to prepare the tables for dinner.
Callaway stood abruptly. The maid halted mid-step, but he only returned the straight-backed chair to the table from which it must have come.
The maid came to their semi-circle. “No more tea, Mrs. Tarrant, I’m sorry to say. And Mrs. Eccles, our cook, says no more biscuits or savories.” She pressed down her apron as she stared at the two men, then she became brave enough to ask “Are you the men from Scotland Yard? The ones what Nuala checked in `round noon? Mrs. Eccles wants to know if you’ll be wanting anything more than the cottage pie. She’s time to make a dried fruit sweet. You’ll be wishing you’d come when Mrs. Halsey was here.”
Michael frowned at the question, but Sgt. Callaway gave a little cough. “The local constable spoke highly of Mrs. Halsey’s hot cross buns. Soft as pillows, he said.”
“Mrs. Halsey’s off on Monday and Tuesday. Mrs. Eccles can put together a soda bread or scones. I’ll have her do that, shall I? Anything for you, Mrs. Tarrant?”
“I think I’ll pass on the bread, so I won’t feel guilty about indulging when Mrs. Halsey returns.”
“And Miss Sherborne?”
“I dare not guess. She went up to her room.”
“I’ll ask her in a bit then.” She glanced over the tables. “Half-past seven is dinner this evening.”
As soon as the lounge door swung closed, Michael pinned her with the question Sibby had interrupted. “Have we determined—what? The murder weapon? You know we shouldn’t talk of any specifics with you.”
“Well, I like that,” she said huffily. “It’s not like I’m a suspect. Or am I?”
“No, you aren’t.”
“And I’ve given you lots of information. Quid pro quo, Michael. Do you know anything about the weapon? I’ll be all around Abbey School with a legitimate reason. I might spot something out of place.”
“A weighted stick,” Callaway told her then grinned at Michael’s obvious displeasure. “You just said she’s not a suspect, boss. She might have ideas that we wouldn’t.”
“A weighted stick. Like a garden tool,” she murmured, much as she and Flick had speculated. Nothing swam up from her unconscious. “Do you think Miles Farrell was pointing you to a culprit?”
“Those boys? Edward Malvaise and—who was the other?”
“Bryce Chevington,” the sergeant said, without looking.
“Malvaise is the subject of your portrait, isn’t he? Has he said anything?”
“Mr. Farrell would have us believe,” she spoke carefully, not wanting any word to sound accusing, “that he and Webberly and Sherborne and—I don’t remember the other man—that they formed a hedge around the boys, protecting them from the petty tyranny of the Old Guard. Edward Malvaise didn’t say that, not at all.”
“What did he say?”
“Can you use my words as fact? I thought they were hearsay.”
“Not as evidence in court. We’d have to hear them from him, then he would have to testify to them. You can report it to us for investigative purposes, though.”
“Well, Edward didn’t talk about the four men. He didn’t seem to think highly of any of the masters.”
“Us versus them?” Callaway hazarded.
“There’s this,” Michael added. “Farrell pointed us to this Malvaise and to another boy. He wanted us to blame them.”
“Chevington.”
“Bryce Chevington, boss.”
“Edward talked of Chevington. He said he didn’t like Webberly, but that he took it out on the rugby field.”
“Classic misdirection,” Michael murmured. “Look at the boys, don’t look at an adult. We need to talk with this Edward Malvaise. And with Bryce Chevington. Tomorrow. Perhaps.”
Isabella didn’t like that added perhaps. Michael didn’t look like a bulldog; he was too lean. But once he snagged a bit of evidence, he grabbed it and shook until he’d worked everything out of it. “Edward said he would tell me about his classmate Chevington tomorrow.”
“You want she should ask anything specific of Malvaise?”
“I don’t see how either of the boys will help your murder investigation,” she protested. “I saw Edward at the Sunday service. He didn’t leave.”
“Did this Chevington leave?”
“I don’t know who he is, but I can tell you that none of the boys left.”
“The vicar confirms that, boss. Only two people left. Chauncey Sherborne, back for communion. Verna Filmer, absent for the whole of communion. None of the other masters. None of the employees who attend Abbey Church. Not Mrs. Tarrant here or Miss Sherborne. That Dunley gave us the list of the boys who logged in, matched it to the roster of those in the school; all there.”
“Dean Filmer takes attendance for Sunday service?”
“Any boy absent must make up with an extra chapel, Mrs. Tarrant. Makes our life easy, but as a boy I wouldn’t like my time regimented like that.”
“You never liked check-in at headquarters either, did you, Callaway?”
His grin this time was wide and impish. “No, boss, that’s truth. I like working with you. You want I should put those boys on the list for tomorrow? And a new interview with Farrell?”
“I think we’ll see what happens.”
Isabella cringed inwardly. Michael did sound as if he’d made up his mind. On Chauncey, she feared. What can I do to distract him? To save Flick’s brother, she had to sacrifice someone. “You must interview Verna Filmer, too.” She wasn’t certain she was making the right decision. Madoc would know, but he wasn’t here. He was sailing to the southern hemisphere. She had to act as she thought best—and she didn’t think Chauncey Sherborne had committed murder. At dinner Webberly had only annoyed him. “After the service, Flick and I heard Mr. Farrell trying to calm down Mrs. Filmer. They were in the maze, talking loudly. We heard them quite clearly. She’d apparently discovered that Mr. Webberly was involved with—.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “With Nuala.”
“With Nuala?”
“The maid who checked you in. Sibby said Nuala did.”
“The maid just now is Sibby?” Callaway had drawn out his notebook and pencil. “How do you spell Nuala? Like it sounds? What’s her last name? Rice?”
“I don’t know her last name. Sibby will have to tell you.”
“What else?”
She hoped she’d upset Michael’s neat apple cart of facts against Chauncey. Isabella looked forward to mixing in some green apples with his ripe russets. “Nuala was in danger of losing her job because of her involvement with George Webberly. Mrs. Pollard was jealous. Apparently, their affaire had just started.”
Michael thumped back in his chair.
“Skirt-chaser.” Callaway shook his head. “That’s real trouble.”
Isabella primmed her mouth and threw more apples. “I do not know if Mr. Pollard and Dean Filmer were aware of their wives’ connections with Mr. Webberly.”
“Constable mentioned something like, boss.”
His mouth twisted. “Yes, I remember.”
“Have I thrown you sideways?” She knew she had. She just didn’t know if she’d said enough to convince Michael to look away from Chauncey.
“Not quite. More than I’d like,” he admitted. “At least we have other directions to look if we need to. I would like to talk more with Miss Sherborne before we make any firm direction. Do you think she’s recovered?”
“I suppose you want a more in-depth interview? Were the statements we gave Constable Amsley not enough?”
“Very basic, Mrs. Tarrant. You should know that.”
“I do. Shouldn’t you interview me first? I mean, here I sit.”
“I may confirm a few of her statements with you, if you don’t mind.”
In the guise of being amenable, Isabella assented. Then she trudged upstairs.
How can I delay Flick’s interview without it seeming like a delay?
She liked Michael Wainwright and Sgt. Callaway. Madoc owed loyalty to his former colonel. He wouldn’t want her to interfere with any investigation. She also liked Flick. They’d quickly formed a friendship. She liked Chauncey Sherborne.
But someone likeable could be a murderer.
Chauncey, though, didn’t seem the type to hold grudges.
She’d met two murderers, on Crete and at the Malvaise estate of Emberly. She’d disliked both of them. Every person she disliked, though, wasn’t a murderer. The law of averages was such that, if she encountered another murderer—and she had—then two out of three, the next murderer had to be someone she liked.
Isabella tapped on Flick’s door. While she waited, she convinced herself that a different law of averages was at work.
Flick didn’t come to the door. Isabella couldn’t hear anyone moving around in the room. Flick wasn’t in the water closet; that door down the hall was partly ajar.
She tapped again. Still no answer. Isabella tried the knob. It turned, and the door opened on its well-oiled hinges.
Flick wasn’t in the room.
Chapter 20
Monday Evening
The Calcott’s wheels skidded on the gravel. The auto stopped with a slide then a jerk. Flick flung open the door and slid out, barely remembering to grab her purse. Then she ran down the road behind the Prior’s House and to the Master’s Lodgings beyond the teaching hall.
Her open coat swung, admitting freezing air. She didn’t feel it. She hadn’t felt the cold at all as she drove. A greater fear chilled her. She prayed Chauncey had merely been an idiot. She prayed that, while the war had scarred him, it hadn’t completely changed him.
She didn’t fear that he had killed George Webberly.
She did fear that he had helped the person who did.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
“Flick isn’t in her room,” Isabella reported.
Michael Wainwright leaped to his feet. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.” She didn’t like admitting that. She didn’t like thinking that Flick had fled rather than help the investigation. She feared Flick had gone to her brother. Did Chauncey need his sister’s protection?
Callaway looked up from the notes he’d been scanning. “She the one that owns that green Calcott? I’ll see if it’s in the garage, boss.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“She wouldn’t help her brother escape,” she protested. Would she?
Michael glanced her way as he circled the seating to reach the door. “That you find the need to say that, Mrs. Tarrant, adds to the doubts in my mind. Let’s go, Callaway.”
After they left, Isabella collapsed onto the settee. Where Sibby found her, many minutes later.
“Those policemen off? I didn’t find Miss Sherborne. Didn’t you say she went to her room?”
Isabella struggled to answer. There wasn’t a good answer to either question.
“Mrs. Eccles won’t like having to keep their dinners warm. Ruins them, she says. Can save them scones, no trouble, but the cottage pie—it will dry out if it’s left warming.”
