“Like they put on potatoes?”

  “Now who’s being common?”

  * * *

  “Why did you have to stick your nose in, you dreadful woman?” Linette demanded.

  “What do you mean?” Eleanor asked, shocked at being confronted in this way. Linette had cornered her as she came out of the WC.

  “My father attacked Ollie and tried to send him away. You’ve ruined everything! Are you happy now, you interfering cow? I hate you!”

  “I’m sorry, I never meant to—”

  “Isn’t it bad enough that you’ve come between my mother and father? Did you have to spoil what I had too? What is wrong with you?”

  “I—”

  “You’re just as bad as my father. You just want to ruin everything for other people. You can’t bear to see us happy.”

  “That’s not true. And your father isn’t—”

  “Isn’t he? Then why did my father pay photographers to follow Ted Kimball?”

  “Teddy?”

  “He didn’t tell you that, did he? He sent Ollie to follow Mr. Kimball, he wanted some pictures that would force Kimball to give up his interest in you. And that worked out better than anyone hoped, didn’t it? Provoking Mr. Kimball into attacking someone, then taking pictures to show what a terrible drunk he was.”

  “No...”

  “You think my father didn’t know what it would take to make you cast Ted Kimball aside? Leo Fulbright takes what he knows about you, and he uses it to get what he wants. If you don’t believe that, you are fooling yourself and you deserve everything that will happen to you.”

  “Linette, I—”

  “Keep away from me, and Ollie, you’ve done enough damage already.”

  Eleanor watched Linette walk away, trying to discount what she had said. And found herself short of a convincing argument against what she had heard about Leo Fulbright.  

  * * *

  Vickery stood on the terrace and breathed deeply. If he was being honest, it wasn’t fresh air he needed so much as a break from the people inside. He was feeling very much like an outsider intruding on a family occasion, which in a way he was. He was here to work, and that work required him to observe and question the other guests. Something he could not do unless he returned to their company. He was on the point of making his way inside when he became aware of someone else exiting onto the terrace via the French doors. He stepped back into the shadows and watched Veronica Fulbright come out into the moonlight and glance about nervously. Seeing no-one, she hurried across the paved area and onto the path that would take her to the right, towards the wood. Her behaviour aroused his curiosity, and Vickery might have followed her, but he already had a good idea where she was going.

  Only a few moments later, Vickery spotted another figure emerge from the woods. The man sauntered towards the terrace with his hands in his pockets.

  “How was dinner?” Vickery asked, stepping out of the shadows. Malloy didn’t seem surprised by this.

  “The fare was bland, the company—interesting,” he said. “You owe me four shillings and thruppence.”

  “I asked you to buy George a drink, not the whole inn.”

  “Ah, well, I had my dinner and we had a couple of drinks, and we got to talking, and then we had a couple more.”

  “What did you make of him?” Vickery asked.

  “Good-looking fellow, a little younger than yourself. Not a rich man, I would say, but no pauper. And he seemed entirely genuine.”

  “You told him about the situation here?”

  “That I did. He wasn’t entirely convinced at first, wanted to be up here himself. But another drink or two and I had him round to our way of thinking.”

  “Four shillings and thruppence well-spent, then. Did you see Miss Fulbright as you were returning?”

  “I did indeed. And made sure she didn’t see me,” Malloy said.

  “A fine evening’s work,” Vickery said.

  “Did I miss anything here? Has anyone murdered Fulbright yet?” Malloy asked.

  “No.”

  “Ah well, the night is still young. I’m off down to the kitchen to see what Mrs. B has set aside for supper.”

  “More food, so soon?” Vickery asked.

  “I have been walking all evening, ten miles at least.”

  “Only if you were considerably lost: it is a mile and a half along the bridleway to the village.”

  “Is that all? It seemed a lot longer in the dark.”

  “Sounds like the punchline to a joke. Enjoy your supper, Mr. Malloy.”

  “Sure and you’ve a dirty mind, Mr. Vickery. I like that.” Malloy grinned.  

   

  Chapter 11

  The drawing room seemed a little dark, furnished in Victorian style, though less cluttered. It also served as the music room, being home to a glossy baby grand piano. There were several high-backed chairs, and three sofas upholstered with faded tapestry fabric. Wing-backed chairs sat either side of a large marble fireplace. Off to one side was a round table draped in a fringed cloth with four chairs around it: it looked ready to hold a séance. Low tables were scattered about, and several aspidistras tried to rise above the questionable taste of their gaudy pots. Windows at one end of the room opened onto the grass in front of the keep; those at the rear would, in daylight, afford a pleasant view past the orchard to the lake.

  Fulbright entered carrying a glass of brandy and made immediately for the armchair on the left of the fire. This was obviously Sir Geoffrey’s favourite chair, and he looked mildly annoyed at Fulbright’s presumption, especially when Fulbright, unbidden, opened a glossy walnut cigar box on the low table beside the chair and helped himself to one of Sir Geoffrey’s cigars. With a sigh of resignation, Sir Geoffrey took the chair on the right.

  The other guests filtered in, taking places on the sofas or standing nearby.

  “This is the drawing room, not the parlour,” Bannister was saying as he came in with Artie. “Parlours is what middle class people have, this is upper class.”

  “Pardon my ignorance, I’m sure,” Artie said, favouring Bannister with a mock curtsey. “And is that what we call a pee-anna, or do the toffs have a posh name for that an all?”

  “You are so common,” Bannister sniffed. He took a seat at the piano and lifted the lid. He began to play Greensleeves softly, in the style of a tea-room pianist.

  Vickery offered to sit on one of the sofas with Linette and Oliver Garvin and entertain them with a little table-top magic. Garvin looked pale and there were dark circles under his eyes.

  “Sit on my right, if you would, Mr. Vickery: I still have a terrible ringing in my left ear.”

  Vickery asked them to carefully examine a small wooden box with a drawer in it, it was a little larger than a matchbox, and to satisfy themselves that it was completely empty. Linette took it from Garvin’s fumbling fingers and poked and prodded it, took out the drawer completely and held up both parts of the box to the light.

  “Empty,” she said, her tone certain. She slotted the drawer back into the box and held it out to Vickery. He declined to take it.

  “Place it on the table,” he said. “Tap the top of it—gently—three times.” Linette did so. “Now open the box.”

  Linette slid open the drawer carefully, and something golden leaped out of it, startling her into a laugh. A brass grasshopper sat on the table, clearly a mechanical device powered by a watch spring. Linette picked it up suspiciously, turning it over, looking for the trick of it. At Vickery’s request, she placed it back into the little wooden drawer, which it filled completely. She slid the drawer back into the box. Again she tapped the top of the box three times, then opened the drawer. The mechanical grasshopper was gone.

  “Where did it go?” Linette asked. She shook the little box, separated the two parts again, and searched them carefully with eyes and fingertips.

  “It went wherever you sent it,” Vickery said. “Clearly you have a talent for magic.”

  “Except that I have no idea how I did it!” Linette said.

  “Where’s the music?” Artie asked.

  “Upstairs,” Bannister said.

  “Wouldn’t it be better down here on the piano?”

  “Be a dear and fetch it for me?”

  “Send the butler up for it, isn’t that what posh people do?”

  “I’ll fetch it myself.” Bannister sighed.  

  What occurred next only became clear in retrospect. There was a loud sound, something between a snap and a twang, people said, at the front end of the room. A brief hissing, followed by a loud, hollow thud over by the fireplace. Eleanor screamed, shocked by the sudden impact. Fulbright was the first to become aware of what had happened, having heard and felt the passage of something close to his face. His eyes flicked to the left, to where a crossbow quarrel was embedded in the leather of the chair wing, only inches from his head. His face was pale with the shock of it, but his colour swiftly rose.

  “I’ve been shot at!” He thundered, leaping to his feet.

  “The window!” Eleanor pointed to where the curtain still shivered. Vickery and Fulbright both sprang towards it. The window was ajar. They pushed it open and peered out. But no one was to be seen in the darkness. After a few seconds of trying to discern movement in the shadows, they pulled their heads back inside.

  Vickery glanced around the room, noting which of the guests were present, and which absent. Margot McCrae, Ted Kimball, Veronica Fulbright, and Dickie Bannister were not in the room at that moment.

  Sir Geoffrey was bending over, peering at the quarrel embedded in the chair.

  “I say, you don’t think this was meant for me, do you?” He asked. “This is where I usually sit.”

  “They were aiming for my head!” Fulbright insisted.

  “How on earth did they manage to miss that?” Garvin muttered. Linette shushed him.

  “Do you think we should send someone for the police?” Sir Geoffrey asked. “No telephone out here, I’m afraid.”

  “Do you think this is related to those poison pen letters?” Linette asked. “Perhaps we should fetch the police now?”

  Fulbright’s face was scarlet, and it took him a few breaths to regain his voice.

  “We don’t need the police for this—nonsense!” He said. He pointed a finger at Vickery and jabbed the air. “I said I wanted this sorted. Get it done!”

  Margot entered. “What have I missed?” She asked brightly.

  Fulbright scowled at her. “Where have you been?”

  “I went up to fetch my wrap,” she said. Then aware of her bare shoulders, she added: “Couldn’t find it. I know I had it earlier when I was walking in the garden.”

  “Someone tried to kill me,” Fulbright said.

  Margot became aware that everyone was looking at her. “If I had intended to kill him, he would be dead,” she said.

  Bannister came into the room carrying his eyeglasses and a battered manila folder into which sheet music had been carelessly stuffed.

  “Who’s for a bit of Nanki-Poo?” Artie said, snapping open a fan and swishing it in front of his face. He took his place beside the piano and Bannister’s fingers found the first chord.

  “Leo escaped being murdered. Alas, Gilbert and Sullivan shall not be so lucky,” Margot muttered to Vickery. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Eleanor Trenton was still standing, ashen-faced, staring at the window through which the crossbow had been fired. 

  “I wonder if she saw who was at the window,” Vickery said. He moved towards her and asked his question. Eleanor shook he head: she had seen nothing, but had been startled by the sound.

  “Thank goodness they missed,” she said.

  “Perhaps that was the intention,” Vickery said. 

  Artie was just finishing his song when Ted Kimball entered the drawing room.

  Kimball glanced towards Margot, smiled and nodded. She nodded back. And then, when Margot had looked away from him, Kimball nodded towards Artie. Artie looked uncomfortable, and gave the merest jerk of his head in acknowledgement.

  “Sing us another one, Artie,” Bannister said.

  “I—I don’t want to. Not right now,” Artie said.

  “Oh, come on, don’t play coy.”

  “I’m not, really,” Artie insisted, still seeming distracted.

  Eleanor Trenton placed a hand on Bannister’s shoulder and bent to whisper in his ear. He looked up at her and laughed, and began to play. Eleanor clasped her fingers together in front of her chest, looking as though she was going to perform something terribly ‘proper,’ but the rumble of the piano suggested not. Her voice, when she sang, was surprisingly deep and rich, with just the hint of archness that Anything Goes required.

  Margot adopted an expression of cold disdain, but when she saw that Eleanor had captivated the audience, she turned on her heel and walked out. As applause followed Eleanor’s performance, Artie Delancey also seemed less than pleased, though he pretended otherwise.

  “That was lovely, dear. Perhaps we could try a duet?” He said. “You could take the man’s part.”

  Eleanor walked away without responding.

  “That wasn’t called for,” Bannister said. “What’s wrong with you tonight?”

  “You’ve got to admit, it was a bit butch,” Artie said.

  “Compared to you, dear, even I’m butch.”

  “Shut up and play the piano, Dickie.”

  * * *

  “What happened to the booming bittern?” Margot asked.

  “She’s gone to her room unwell, thinks it might be something she ate,” Vickery said.

  “And Teddy has gone to ‘rub her tummy’ has he?” Margot asked, glancing around the drawing room.

  “I thought perhaps he had gone to prepare for his performance.”

  “That’s supposed to be a secret. You mustn’t let Leo know. I need to get him out of the way,” Margot said. “Don’t look at me like that: I’m not going to lure him to some secluded spot and bludgeon him to death with a blunt instrument. Not without an alibi.”

  “Going off on your own to look for a wrap and not finding it, that’s not much of an alibi,” Vickery said.

  “Shooting at Leo’s head and missing isn’t much of a murder,” Margot said. “Am I your only suspect?”

  “Veronica Fulbright, Mr. Kimball, and Mr. Bannister were all absent at the moment the shot was fired in through the window,” Vickery said.

  “Have you checked the soft earth outside the window for footprints?”

  “Whatever for?” Vickery asked.

  “Isn’t that what proper detectives do? To help narrow the list of suspects. For a start you could see if they were male or female.”

  “Miss Fulbright wears men’s shoes.”

  “She does?”

  “Brogues,” Vickery said. “I thought women noted such things.”

  “Only in other women they regard as a friend or a threat,” Margot said.

  “And what sort of shoes was Eleanor Trenton wearing this evening?”

  “An open-toe high-heel sandal, patent leather, darker shade of red than her dress, why?”

  “Just testing your theory. Does Mr. Kimball play darts, do you know?”

  “Haven’t a clue, why?”

  “I was thinking of challenging him.”

  “To a game of fifty-one?” Margot asked.

  “That as well. Do you think he could hit the bull’s-eye?”

  “Sober, probably. Do you think he shot the crossbow at Leo?”

  “I would certainly like to know where he was when it was fired.”

  “Teddy wasn’t with me,” Margot said. Was there a challenge in that remark, or a defensiveness? “Where are those two off to?” She nodded towards Linette, who had taken Oliver Garvin’s hand and was leading him out.

  “A romantic moonlight stroll?” Vickery suggested.

  “Do people really do that?” Margot asked. “It seems such a cliché.”

  “It is just an excuse to be away from the presence of others,” Vickery said.

  “Do you think they are up to no good?”

  “I did not see Mr. Garvin carrying a flag, if that’s what you are asking,” Vickery said.

  “I wasn’t thinking any such thing! What a filthy mind you have.”

  “I think I should question Mr. Bannister regarding his recent whereabouts,” Vickery said.

  “You don’t suspect him of trying to kill Leo? We’ve known Dickie for years.”

  “And do people grow fonder of Leo, the longer they are acquainted with him?”

  “We grow more tolerant. We have to.”

  “Sometimes we find our tolerance put to the test,” Vickery said. “Mr. Bannister is, I think, much more attached to you than he is to Leo.”

  “Lesser of two evils,” Margot said, “we are both acquired tastes.”

  “I know in whose company I should prefer to pass my time,” Vickery said.

  “Yes, but that’s because we are both vitriolic misanthropes, no one else would put up with us.”

  “Perhaps. But Mr. Bannister and I are also kinsmen, after a fashion.”

  “You are both sexagenarians?”

  “I am sure Mr. Bannister would feel complimented to be described so, whereas I am deeply offended.”

  “Touchy about our age, are we Benjamin?”

  “Only when people add ten years to it.”

  “Ten?”

  “Yes. Well, the best part of ten years.”

  “Perhaps you are human, after all,” Margot said, smiling. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  * * *

  “Mr. Vickery, I can’t tempt you into giving us a song? Artie seems to have lost his voice. The poor boy looks quite ill,” Bannister said.

  “Something he ate?” Vickery asked.

  “More likely to be something he drank, the way he’s knocking it back. He’s not usually like this.”

  “You are feeling well yourself?”

  “Perfectly fine, why do you ask?”

 

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