Motive for Murder (3 page)

At Mr Haig's gesture, I followed her into the dining-room. It was a large, impressive room, oak-panelled, with an ornately-carved mantelpiece and hunting prints on the wall. Down one side, a series of long windows looked over the garden – not, today, an inspiring view – and on an end wall, the large bay I had seen from the front of the house curved gracefully out into the mist. I shivered before I could stop myself, but if Mr Haig noticed, he gave no sign.

Miss Tamworth came in behind us and the three of us took our places at one end of the long dining table.

The meal, excellent though it was, was not a comfortable one, being eaten almost entirely in silence. Opposite me, Miss Tamworth's eyes never left her plate, and at the head of the table, Matthew Haig gazed down the length of the room into space. I was devoutly thankful, like Sarah, that this need not be endured every evening. I thought wistfully of the family meal at home, with all of us eager to tell of the day's happenings. This evening my place would be empty. I remembered Gilbert's misgivings, and a small knot of depression formed inside me.

The sweet course was duly served. The hot food had made me sleepy and my jaw ached with the strain of not yawning. The headache which had begun earlier throbbed in my temples with persistent pain.

At last the meal was over. I said tentatively, ‘If you don't want me this evening, Mr Haig, I think I'll go to my room. I'm rather tired after the journey, and I'd like to unpack before going to bed.'

‘Yes, of course. I'll get you those notes to take up with you.'

I went with him to the library and he handed me a sheaf of papers. ‘Good night, Miss Barton. I hope you . . .' he paused, and seemed to change what he'd been about to say: .. sleep well,' he finished lamely.

‘Thank you.'

I went up the long staircase to my room and thankfully closed the door behind me. Someone, presumably Mrs Johnson, had drawn the curtains and lit the gas fire, and the little room was warm and welcoming. I slipped off my shoes and dropped the notes on the bed. I'd have a bath, unpack, then settle down to read the typescript.

Lying blissfully in the hot water, I thought idly about the people in the house and wondered what my predecessor had made of them. I wished I could meet Linda Harvey, and remembered Mike's reaction when Sarah had mentioned her. Matthew Haig hadn't been very forthcoming either, but surely it was unusual for a secretary to leave in the middle of a book? Perhaps he'd had to dismiss her.

The bath had refreshed me and I no longer felt so tired. Back in my room I unpacked quickly, folding clothes away into drawers and hanging dresses in the cupboard, impatient now to read through Mr Haig's manuscript. Finally, having slid the empty suitcase under the bed, I was free to settle down in the chintz chair with the typewritten pages.

I awoke the next morning to find the room filled with golden light, and slid out of bed to run to the window. My room was at the front of the house, and immediately below lay the gravel drive leading to the gateway through which I'd driven with Mike. On either side of the drive, lawns as smooth as billiard tables stretched away to distant laurel hedges.

I'd hoped to catch a glimpse of the sea from my window, but in this I was disappointed.

Beyond the boundaries of the garden lay moorland, rising to the left, and on the right dropping down to the road up from Chapelcombe. A heavy dew lay on the grass but all trace of the mist had gone.

I turned from the window, picked up the zipped writing-case which I'd laid on the table the previous night, and climbed back into bed with it. This seemed the ideal chance to write my duty letter home.

Well, I arrived safely,
I began conventionally
, and was met at the station by Mr Haig's daughter – who's about eight – and his cousin (very good-looking!). Touchstone is quite a big house, but I haven't seen it properly from the outside because, believe it or not, it was shrouded in mist when I arrived! However, it's quite imposing, and set in stately, formal gardens surrounded by clipped laurels.

My bedroom is small and pretty, and I've just woken up. Last night, I read through the hundred or so pages of the draft novel and it's fascinating – a murder story, which is unusual for Matthew Haig, but with the sympathetic characters that are in all his books. Which is strange, because in real life he doesn't seem to like people much!

I paused. Outside the window a bird was singing, but there was no other sound.

It's to be called
MOTIVE FOR MURDER
, I went on, and from what's been written so far, I think the idea is to tell the story of a murder from five different angles; that of each suspect in turn. They all have motives, and it will be a challenge for the reader to guess which one actually committed the crime.

A knock on the door interrupted me, and Mrs Johnson came in with a tray of tea. ‘Oh, you
are
awake, miss. 'Tis a lovely morning, and all that nasty mist gone, praise be.'

‘It looks wonderful,' I agreed, laying aside my letter and taking the tray from her. ‘Thank you. I was hoping I could see the sea from my window, but I can't.'

‘Not quite, no, but it's not far away. Just down the slope and across the Chapelcombe Road. Now miss, there's breakfast in the dining-room at eight for Miss Tamworth and the liddle lass. Mr Haig has toast and fruit juice in his room. Would you like something up here, or will you go down?'

I eyed her over the teacup. ‘What did Miss Harvey do?'

Mrs Johnson started, and her quick, apprehensive glance dropped from my steady gaze. ‘Miss Harvey? Well now – well, I seem to remember she changed her mind each day. Sometimes she went down, but latterly –' She broke off, confused, and rubbed her palms on her apron.

‘Latterly?' I prompted gently.

Mrs Johnson kept her eyes down. ‘Latterly she didn't want no breakfast at all, miss.'

‘Oh.' I regarded her meditatively but apparently she was not to be inveigled into speaking of Linda Harvey, either. I thought of the dim, silent dining-room of the evening before – it made a poor comparison with my bright bedroom.

‘I'd like breakfast here, please Mrs Johnson, if that's all right. Toast and fruit juice would be lovely.'

‘Very good miss,' Mrs Johnson made her thankful way to the door. ‘And Mr Haig said to remind you he'll expect you in the library at nine.'

‘Thank you.'

The door closed behind her and I frowned to myself, mentally adding another paragraph to my letter.

There appears to be some mystery about the girl who was here before me – nobody wants to talk about her.

But I couldn't write that, of course: it would worry them. I was not, however, going to let it worry me.

I had another drink of tea. This was better than dashing off to the tube, I thought with a smile. Breakfast in my room, and a leisurely stroll to the library when I've finished! And the plot of the novel was far more fascinating than the dry legalities of the office I'd left behind. This afternoon, when I was free, I would go and look at the sea. Linda Harvey, whoever she was, must have been mad to let a job like this slip through her fingers.

* * *

At five minutes to nine I knocked on the library door and went in. Matthew Haig was already at his desk. He barely glanced up.

‘Good morning.'

‘Good morning, Mr Haig.' I laid the typescript on the desk in front of him.

‘You got through it all right? Good. Well, there's a lot of stuff on the tape that I've done in the last few weeks since – I haven't had a secretary. We won't waste time on that now, because I want to start dictating, but perhaps you'd type it out as soon as possible.' He motioned me to sit down. ‘I usually dictate until about midday, then for the last hour before lunch you can type out your notes. That should give you plenty of time – I don't get through much new work in a day.

‘In the afternoon, as I think I told you, I play golf, and as long as you're up to date with your notes, your time is your own. You'll also have two free evenings a week. Is that satisfactory?'

It was, of course, very satisfactory; despite the evening work, these were shorter hours than I'd been used to. His brusque manner, though, made it sound as if he was interviewing a somewhat inadequate charlady.

‘Quite, thank you,' I said.

‘Right, then we'll start. Incidentally, I shall expect you to keep me straight – tell me if I change the colour of someone's eyes in midstream, or repeat myself.' His mouth lifted slightly in what might be taken for a smile, so I dutifully smiled back.

We began to work, and despite his claim not to go quickly, I was kept busy, cursing myself for not having looked up the outlines of such words as ‘murder', ‘deceased' and ‘mortuary', which were new to my shorthand vocabulary.

Some coffee arrived at eleven, but Matthew did not pause in his dictation, and a thick layer of skin had formed before I was able to ease my cramped fingers and drink it.

At last, just on twelve o'clock, he leant back in his chair. ‘Right, that'll do for now. Work from the tape first, then this morning's work. Leave them on my desk when you've finished.' He stood up, and without further comment left the room.

On the opposite side of the hearth stood another desk, which was presumably mine. A covered typewriter stood on it, and on a table to one side was the tape recorder. I put paper in the machine, switched on the recorder, and began to type.

I was only about half-way through the first tape when Mrs Johnson looked round the door to say it was ten minutes till lunch. It seemed, I thought ruefully, as if my afternoon walk to the cliffs would have to be postponed.

I glanced out of the window in time to see Sarah come running over the grass, with Mike strolling behind her.

She was aiming for the front door, but on seeing me she swerved and motioned me to open the French window. ‘Oh Miss Barton, Pinkie's got the loveliest little babies!' she cried excitedly. ‘Uncle Mike let me hold one and it was all warm and velvety!'

I'd forgotten Mike's promise to show her the piglets – in fact, it had registered in my mind only as an attempt to stop her chatter about Linda Harvey.

‘How's it going?' he enquired now, coming up to us. ‘Is the muse co-operative today?' He was smiling and the admiration in his eyes lifted my heart.

He really was remarkably handsome, with his thick hair and those grey, incredibly long-lashed eyes. I was struck again by the paradox of their dreaminess and his lean cheeks and strong, square chin. ‘The muse has about three weeks' start on me, I gather,' I replied. ‘It will take me some time to catch up.'

‘So you won't be free this afternoon?'

It was merely a question, I told myself, not a veiled invitation. ‘Afraid not, and I was hoping for a closer look at the sea.'

‘There'll be plenty of time,' he said easily. Behind me, loud through the open window, the dinner gong sounded.

‘Away you go, both of you, or there'll be trouble. I'm off to the Chapel Arms for a pint. See you! 'Bye, Sarah.'

‘Thank you for showing me the pigs!' Sarah called over her shoulder, and he raised a hand in acknowledgment.

‘Uncle Mike likes you,' Sarah remarked as we hurriedly shared the cloakroom basin to wash our hands.

‘Does he?' I hoped I sounded non­committal.

‘Yes, he was asking me about you.'

Miss Tamworth appeared at the open door. ‘Hurry, Sarah. Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Barton.' Her eyebrows conveyed surprised displeasure at the shared washbasin. Sarah flashed me a conspiratorial grin and followed her across the hall to the dining-room.

Well, I had two friends here, I thought to myself, and perhaps that wasn't so bad for less than twenty-four hours.

* * *

Lunch was not much more cheerful than dinner had been. However, Sarah's chatter helped lighten the atmosphere, despite repeated commands not to talk so much and to eat her food while it was hot.

Matthew spoke only once, to enquire whether I had finished the notes. I told him I had not, but would do so after lunch, and he made no comment.

Accordingly I spent the long, golden afternoon typing, first to the tape recorder, and then from my shorthand notes. The pile of pages grew gratifyingly and by four-thirty I had finished. There was half an hour in hand before the evening session, and I badly needed some fresh air.

I went out through the French windows and across the smooth lawn to the gates through which, in the mist, Mike had driven me last night. Today, it was a different world.

On my left, the rough road petered out into a sheep track, meandering farther up the hill among tufts of grass and golden fronds of bracken. Autumn was already touching the spiky hedgerows, and jewel-red berries studded the green, but this afternoon it was still summer and the air was heavy with the warm, honey-sweet smell of gorse. Along the path a grasshopper whirred and a clumsy bee droned lazily among the clover at my feet. For a moment I debated whether to take the moorland path, but the call of the sea was strong in me.

I turned down the hill and after a few minutes came to the wider road which led up from the town. Beyond it lay the cliffs and the sea.

I crossed quickly, almost running now my goal was in sight. But almost immediately I realized I had not, after all, time to reach the beach and be back at the house by five. The sand lay a long way beneath me, reached apparently by means of a flight of steps cut out of the cliff which fell away almost at my feet.

To my right an outcrop of rock ran out into the sea, cutting off the little bay below me, and beyond it lay the main beach of Chapelcombe. It would probably be possible to walk round the rocks at low tide, but now the water was right up, and with it the glorious salty tang which I missed so much in London.

I sat down on the warm grass, clasping my knees and gazing out across the water while I breathed deep, ecstatic lungsful of air.