Down the Garden Path (28 page)

Out in the hall, sunlight beaming through the windows on both sides of the door gilded the particles of dust floating in the warm air. The chair which the inspector pulled out for me had its back to the ceiling-high library window overlooking the side lawn. To prevent my hands shaking, I gripped the edge of the table and looked the man straight in his bad eye. Remember Fergy’s advice on applying for a job. Always mentally strip your interviewer naked. Nothing in the world is more ridiculous than a naked man peering down his nose at you from the seat of power. But I had not got past removal of Inspector Lewjack’s tie when my right leg began to jerk violently. I had to move my hands off the table and hold it down. That eye was considering whether to press obscenity charges. My other leg took up the rhythm.

I was thankful for the wide expanse of table between us. He was flopped in his chair, hairy hands outstretched, absently smoothing out a crumpled grease-stained paper bag. I conjured up a wife who packed sandwiches for him. Anything to make him marginally human.

“Smoke?” He pulled out a packet of Players, also spattered with grease spots.

I shook my head.

“Smart girl. Don’t start, won’t have to stop.” He lit up, inhaling with closed-eyed pleasure. “Pleasant room, this. Makes me wish I hadn’t wallpapered my flat. Books are a lot classier. But I suppose they have to be old and out of print to have the right ambience.” He burrowed his nose into the air. “The smell of old money. Pack that into an aerosol can and I reckon Sainsbury’s wouldn’t be able to keep it in stock.”

“The Tramwells aren’t rich people.” The words were out before I could stop them.

“Proper let-down, then, for any burglar who might stray this way. Although his ideas of what constitutes wealth might not coincide with yours, or the Misses Tramwell, for that matter.”

I felt a pang of pity for Butler. He wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as, say, the Grundys, but he had the criminal record. The inspector was back to smoothing out creases in the paper bag. His next words shot across the table catching me in the midriff. “Do you know why Angus Hunt was in Flaxby Meade this morning?”

“No. Well, perhaps he wanted to see me.”

“You were very close friends?”

Surely he wasn’t thinking something vile—that Angus and I were having an affair? “He was like an uncle to me. He had no close family, only a couple of elderly aunts in Scotland.”

“And when was the last time you saw him, prior to this morning?”

“Wednesday night at Cheynwind—the home of the Grundys. His being there was a great surprise to me, a complete coincidence, and the following morning he stopped by here for a chat.”

“With you, particularly?”

“Naturally he wanted to talk with me, but he also liked the Misses Tramwell. They reminded him of his aunts, I believe.”

“And he said nothing about returning so soon?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything about his friendship with the Grundys?”

“Nothing, only that he liked to play cards, that was the form of entertainment that evening.”

“Can you name the other guests for me?”

“There was a Mr. Whitby-Brown. He smoked cigars and dropped ash everywhere.”

The inspector looked at the wobbly end of his cigarette and tapped it on an ashtray. “Who else?”

“A clergyman named Egrinon Snapper, he ...”

“Oh?” The inspector turned the paper bag over. “What have you remembered about the clergyman?”

“Well, the really unusual thing about him was that he was interested in murder. I think he is even writing a book about ones of historical interest and ...”

“And here we have a body dressed up in a monk’s robe. It’s common knowledge hereabouts that a monk was murdered in that avenue in days of yore. The constable informed me with some reluctance on that point.”

“I believe the villagers are ashamed of that old tragedy. Incredibly silly after hundreds of years; but the story offered to outsiders is that the monk, Tessail, committed suicide ...”

“Any other guests on Wednesday night?”

“A Fritz Wortter; he was German.”

“Do I sense, Miss Fields, that you didn’t like him?”

I twisted my hands together under the table. “He and Primrose—that is, the younger Miss Tramwell ...” The card game scene replayed itself for me. I was back in that exquisite chair at Cheynwind, holding that book on practical jokes in my hand and watching Primrose appear the victim and arise the victor. If ever a man had displayed hatred for a woman, that man was Fritz Wortter. But (and here my spirits, which had lifted a little, dipped) for Herr Wortter to have revenged himself upon Primrose in such a way—murdering a man who might be viewed as her enemy in the hope that she would be found guilty of the crime—he would have had to have known about Angus’s visit to Cloisters, and been mad as well. I thought of Angus sprawled across the walk, reduced to a macabre joke in that monk costume, and could not believe that anyone sane would commit such an act. The police would check on Herr Wortter and his movements, wouldn’t they? Again I breathed a little easier.

“What about Miss Primrose Tramwell and this Fritz Wortter?”

“They didn’t hit it off.”

“I see. You left the house this morning at what time, and for what reason?” The thug look intensified as he fired the question.

“Somewhere around six. Yes, I remember—Harry mentioned the time because my watch had stopped. We met in the Ruins. It’s quiet there, and ...”

“A chance to be out from under the eyes of the old ladies. Don’t blame you. Do you know how long your boyfriend had been waiting for you?”

I hedged. “Harry always complains that I am late, but we didn’t have time to talk about anything much, because almost at once we heard Minnie howling and we dashed off in the direction of the sound. Harry knows a lot about animals. He’s wonderful with them.” Whatever his other vices, that much was true.

“Give me the time, if you can, when you and Mr. Harkness found Mr. Hunt.”

“I’m not sure.” Having fudged about how long Harry had been in the Ruins I was in a tight corner here, but my evidence wasn’t vital. Maude and Bertie and Harry, too, could pinpoint the time for the inspector. I kept looking straight into his bad eye, hoping my leg wouldn’t set the table vibrating.

“And Mr. Hunt’s condition, please. According to the doctor who examined the body, death had occurred within the hour. Is it possible he was alive when you found him?”

“Yes. He was, barely.”

“Did he speak?”

The heavy mustiness of the room was closing in on me. I had to brace myself against the table. My determination to know the name of the murderer hadn’t faltered, but I didn’t want to say anything that might lead the inspector to a wrong conclusion. So much depended on how Angus’s dying words had been phrased. And I couldn’t remember. Harry had believed that the person telephoning Angus and the woman threatening suicide were one and the same, and thus the false friend. And maybe I was wishing myself into believing that the false friend was the one on the phone, and that the woman supposedly threatening to kill herself was someone else. Someone with no idea of what was being said about her. But if that were the case the false friend, alias the murderer, could have been male or female. Awful—but this sounded like one of those long-winded brain teasers: If Tom was Bert’s best friend’s wife’s uncle, who was the man on the train ... ?

Trains.
Angus didn’t drive:
And trains didn’t run from London to places like Flaxby in the early morning hours.

“Yes?” prompted Inspector Lewjack.

“Angus said someone had phoned, luring him to Abbots Walk on the pretext that a woman was threatening to hang herself from one of the elms. He said something like ‘Tell them I’m sorry,’ and then he mentioned his aunts in Scotland.” There, I had fudged again, but really I would do much better ferretting out the identity of the murderer myself than trusting in policemen who knew nothing about the personalities involved.

“Anything else?”

“Only a reference to the Tramwells’ dog, Minnie,”

“Such as?”

“He didn’t say anything more than her name. Have you ... have you found the weapon?”

He shook his head. And a picture came of Minnie running off with a knife between her teeth. But surely she would later have dropped it in the garden or the house? How simple for anyone to have scrubbed it off and replaced it in the cutlery drawer, to be handed out later with a fork and a plateful of bacon and eggs. Now I was being stupid. Murders weren’t committed with pieces of cutlery!

“Don’t look so worried, Miss Fields. Our men are outside. There goes one now, searching the grounds.”

Jerking around to the window, I was in time to see a hunched, man-shaped shadow creep past. I wasn’t comforted. That shadow personified more than anything else the menace that besieged the house.

“The possibility of the dog making off with the weapon will not be ignored. Once the search of the grounds is completed we will request permission from the Misses Tramwell to go through the house.”

And if they refused? He must have seen me shiver, for he said, “Relax, Miss Fields. In addition to Constable Watt, and myself, we now have two other policemen stationed indoors. Now, one or two more questions.” He jabbed another battered cigarette into his mouth. “Have you seen that monk’s robe or one similar anywhere in Flaxby Meade?”

“No. And I was up in the attics the other day, going through some trunks of old clothes, which is where costumes left over from pageants or fetes would be kept.”

“Why assume, Miss Fields, that I meant Cloisters, not Flaxby Meade in general?”

“I didn’t. Well, you might ... with this house, but it doesn’t mean—” I took a deep breath and something weird happened: I got angry. Thrusting my hair back behind my ears I leaned my elbows on the table and stuck out my chin. “Inspector, will you stop trying to intimidate me by blowing smoke in my face? If I am going to say something stupid I can do so without any assistance. One thing I am certain of”— and I almost believed it myself— is that the Tramwells are too proud of Cloisters’ heritage to capitalize on it in such a way. What I think is that someone used the monk’s robe to focus attention here.”

“Ah, so now we have a murderer who not only had a vendetta against Angus Hunt, but the Tramwells, too. Anyone else in his little black book, do you think? What about you?”

“Me? Why, that’s ridiculous.” But was it? What if someone didn’t want me at Flaxby Meade because they had guessed at my origins? I had read many books where one murder was committed purely as camouflage for another. Kill Angus and then do away with me; it would be thought that I had guessed too much.

“I am not trying to frighten you, Miss Fields, but I feel you should exercise a certain amount of caution. The boy Bertie will need to be safeguarded, but I will speak to his mother about that.”

Maude. I could see her with her arms around Bertie in the walk. She would do everything she could to protect him.

“Do you think Bertie is in special danger, because even though hidden he was present during the murder?” Fear was back in full force. I felt a special closeness towards the boy; if anything happened ...

“Until the murderer is brought in, the witnesses are inevitably in a precarious position. Nothing we can do about that, I’m afraid, except to advise discretion. No lonely walks, no more rendezvous at dead of night—with anyone.”

“But, Harry ...”

“Can you remember what Bertie said to you in Abbots Walk?”

“He said that the killer hit Mr. Hunt over the head with a tree limb and then hunted around on the ground for something.”

“And what did you make of that?”

“That someone must have planned this, hidden the monk’s robe in readiness, knocked out Angus, and then dressed him up.” My eyes smarted, and I wished I had a handkerchief until Inspector Lewjack handed me one. It looked used, and I shook my head.

“I know this is difficult for you, but if you will bear with me—did you know anyone from Flaxby Meade before coming here this week?”

“I had briefly met Chantal, the maid, before my visit. Harry had taken her out a few times while I was in London, and I ran into her once at his farm.” Full marks, Tessa, for nonchalance.

“You were not previously acquainted with the Tramwells?”

“No. Harry had mentioned them, of course.” My leg started twitching again. What had Bertie told Inspector Lewjack about my arrival? And had he mentioned recognizing Harry’s voice this morning and connecting it with the man who had “attacked” me? If he had, then the inspector’s silence on the matter meant that I was a mouse being pawed around by the big tomcat until I squealed.

Inspector Lewjack stroked his moustache. “And as far as you know, you had formerly met none of the other locals?”

I grabbed the chance to sidetrack. “The first time I met Mrs. Grundy at Cheynwind, I had one of those vague feelings you get about having seen a person somewhere before, yet not being able to place when or where. Probably she reminded me of someone else, not anyone I knew well, but a person I had seen in a shop—a cafe—the library, that sort of place.”

He made a notation, out of mere politeness I supposed, on the paper bag. “What was Mr. Hunt’s occupation?”

“He was an authenticator at The Heritage Gallery. Highly renowned for uncovering art frauds.”

“Ah,” said Inspector Lewjack. “A detective of sorts, eh? Thank you for your time, Miss Fields. Send Mr. Harkness along next, please.”

I deliberately slowed my steps in making for the door, and he let me get within inches of it before stopping me, “Miss Fields, I almost forgot.” Here it came. He was going to pounce with a demand to know what kind of charade Harry and I had been playing in Abbots Walk on Monday afternoon.

“Did Mr. Hunt wear a watch?”

For a full ten seconds I gaped at him. “A watch? What do you mean, wasn’t one found on him? I’m sorry; if one had been you wouldn’t be asking .... Yes, he wore a watch, a pocket watch; they were sort of an enthusiasm of his. He must have had dozens.” I fingered the one around my neck. “He gave me this one.” I was remembering how it had disappeared and then returned.