Murder at the Castle (29 page)

‘James didn't do it. Or at least not that way. I was so much in love with my theory last night that my common sense deserted me. Alan, have you ever looked at that man's teeth?'

‘Hmm.' Alan sipped his coffee. ‘I see what you mean.'

‘Yes. I doubt if a toothbrush touches them very often, let alone dental floss.'

‘So why did he say he did?'

‘He didn't. I did. I thought at the time there was some amusement mixed with the surprise in his reaction. Now I understand why. I'd come up with a perfect solution to his dilemma.'

‘His dilemma being?'

‘How to confess to something when he had no idea how he had supposedly done it.'

‘But . . . but why did he want to confess if he hadn't done it? Is there more coffee?'

‘Coming right up. I asked Mairi to brew us a potful. And you obviously need it. Think, dear heart! All those years as a policeman . . .'

He had downed most of the second cup before he replied, ‘He's protecting someone.'

‘Of course! And we know who, don't we? Who was it he dragged away from here as fast as he could get her? Who was it he stuck to like a burr until she'd had enough of him?'

‘And who is it,' Alan added grimly, ‘who is now helping to look after the Warner twins?'

‘Exactly.'

Alan handed me his cup, got out of bed, and headed for the shower.

We breakfasted quickly on toast and cereal while we discussed what to do. Notify John first, or head for Kent? Call Nigel and Inga and ask them to go back to the Warner home to keep a watching brief?

We decided to do all those things. Alan called John while I phoned Inga and explained the situation.

‘We were just about to leave for Tower,' said Inga, ‘and bring Nigel Peter along for a treat. He won't be happy about us leaving him again, but I suppose . . .'

‘Don't,' I said, thinking quickly. ‘Stay with him. Send Nigel to the Warners' in that hired car, to keep an eye on things. We'll join him as soon as we can get away from here. You'll just have to pick up your car later. We'll work that out.'

‘Right. And Dorothy . . . be careful. Pat was acting a little odd last night, I thought. Maybe she was just tired, but . . .'

It only needed that, I thought as I rang off.

‘John's frantic,' Alan reported. ‘He can't leave Cynthia and the new baby, but he's worried sick about the twins. I tried to play down the danger, but it was only right he should know.'

‘Yes. Let's go.'

It's a long drive from Mold, North Wales, to Appledore, Kent. Alan borrowed Mairi's computer and took five minutes to look it up online, then handed me a sheaf of bewildering directions, and we set out.

The first few miles, on local roads and through villages, were maddening. I sat tense, directions in hand, pushing the car every foot of the way. ‘You know,' said Alan, ‘we won't get there any faster if you give yourself a headache.'

‘I know, but . . . I'm going to phone Nigel.'

‘Not until we reach the motorway, if you please, my dear. I don't know these roads, and I don't want to get lost.'

I tried to relax my shoulders, but it wasn't easy. It seemed hours before we found ourselves on the M6 bound for Birmingham, and I could finally call Nigel. I was, as Alan had predicted, getting a headache.

The connection wasn't good. We must have been passing through an area ill-served by transmission towers. Nigel didn't answer for several rings, and when he did, his voice didn't sound at all like himself.

‘Nigel? Is that you? It's Dorothy.' I paused. ‘Speak up, dear. I can't hear you.'

‘. . . not easy . . . bad . . . hurry . . . hostage . . .'

The last word came through quite clearly, even though Nigel was apparently whispering.

‘Nigel! Are you telling me you're involved in a hostage situation?'

Alan swerved, narrowly missing a huge lorry that was roaring past. And I lost the signal.

‘N
igel! Nigel?' I frantically pressed redial, but there was no response.

Alan meanwhile had pulled into a lay-by. ‘What did he say?'

‘Almost nothing I could make out, except a few words. “Hurry”, he said, and “bad”, and “hostage”.'

‘You're sure about that last?'

‘It was very clear, the clearest of anything. Alan, the signal was terrible, but I think he was whispering!'

‘Right.' Alan had pulled out his own phone and was punching in a well-remembered number.

‘Inspector Morrison, please. It's very urgent. This is . . . Oh, yes, Sergeant. Thank you.' There was a very brief pause. ‘Derek? Alan here. I have a favour to ask. We have word of a potentially dangerous situation in Appledore, down in Kent. It may involve two very young children as hostages, and we have reason to believe a young woman of unstable mentality might also be involved. No details as yet, and we're hurrying to get there as fast as we can, but we're hours away on the M6. I don't know who's in charge down there any more.' Pause. ‘Ah. Well, will you ring him and tell him the children of Sir John Warner may be at grave risk. Yes, the conductor. Keep me posted. Oh, and Derek, see if you can pass the word to the motorway authorities to keep an eye out for my car, and let me maintain some speed.'

He put the phone back in his pocket and eased back into traffic.

We were lucky in a way, I suppose. There were no major traffic jams on the motorways, even around Birmingham and London, and nobody stopped us, though Alan was certainly going far faster than the speed limit. He's an excellent driver, but he is seventy, after all, and his reflexes can't be what they were. My knuckles were white for a good part of the way, but I wasn't sure whether it was the speed or fear of what might meet us at our destination.

The Kent countryside, when we finally reached it, basked in the sunny June afternoon. Appledore was a pretty little village in a county full of pretty little villages. I scarcely noticed it. ‘Which house?' I asked.

‘I don't know.' He pulled to a stop outside the village shop, which a small sign identified as also the post office, got out of the car (with some difficulty) and went inside.

I was suddenly aware of my urgent need for a loo. I looked down the street and found the expected pub. Alan would understand. I got out of the car even more slowly than he had, stiff and sore after five hours of tense sitting, and toddled to the pub.

I met him, bound on the same errand, on my way back to the car.

‘The big house at the end of the street,' he said, pointing. ‘We'll walk, I think. Less conspicuous, in case . . .'

He didn't say in case of what. He didn't have to. I waited for him, suddenly wishing myself far away.

There was no obvious activity around the big house, but as we approached the drive, a man materialized from behind a bush. ‘I'll ask you to move on, sir,' he said, very quietly.

‘I am Alan Nesbitt, retired chief constable of Belleshire. I asked Inspector Morrison, Sherebury Constabulary, to notify your chief of this perhaps dangerous situation.'

‘Ah. That would be me. Superintendent Curtis of the Kent Constabulary, sir.' They shook hands. ‘Can you tell me what you know of the matter, sir?'

‘Not a lot, to be perfectly honest. We believe the Warner children, three-year-old twins, to be inside with their nanny and another woman. It's the other woman who might be the problem. We believe her to be guilty of a rather ingenious murder in Wales a few days ago, and to be emotionally unstable. I hasten to add that nearly all of this is supposition, except that we spoke, some hours ago, with the third adult in the house, a friend from Sherebury.' Alan nodded at me and I took up the tale.

‘The connection was very poor, and I caught only a few words, but they frightened me badly. He quite clearly said “hostage”, also “bad” and “hurry”.

‘I see.' The Superintendent frowned. ‘This was how long ago, did you say?'

‘About three hours,' said Alan. ‘We were just approaching Birmingham on the M6. I phoned Derek immediately.'

‘And he rang us, and we've been here ever since. We've taken no action, not knowing quite what the situation was, but we've kept watch. No one has entered or left the house, and there has been no noise of any kind.'

‘Right.' Alan considered. ‘You're in charge here, sir. But I have been close to the situation, and I know the people involved, all except for the nanny. One of them is a close friend. I'd like to make a suggestion.'

‘As it happens, I know Sir John rather well, and the twins, of course, and I have their interests very much at heart. But I'd welcome anything you'd care to mention.'

I stood there, my heart in my mouth, wishing they'd dispense with the courtesies and get on with it.

‘I'd like, first, to try to phone Nigel. I know him best, and he was the one who alerted us to the situation.'

‘He may not feel free to talk to you.'

‘I realize that. But I think I could communicate with him. I think it's worth a try.'

He held his hand out for my phone, with Nigel's number the first on the list.

We waited. And waited.

‘Number not in service,' he reported, finally.

‘He's turned it off.' I wasn't surprised, but I was deeply disappointed, nevertheless.

‘Yes, someone probably made him do that after your phone call,' said Alan. ‘All right, let's try the next thing.'

‘And that would be, sir?' The superintendent was cooperative, but was making it quite clear that he was in charge.

‘Subject to your approval, of course, I'd like to pretend that everything is normal, and simply go up to the front door and knock. It might work, you know, Superintendent. We may be making a great mountain out of a molehill.'

‘You're forgetting what the young gentleman told your wife, sir. I think we must assume that someone is being held in that house against their will, and that the situation might prove dangerous for the children, if for no one else.'

I couldn't contain myself any longer. ‘Superintendent, may I make a suggestion?'

‘Certainly, madam.'

‘I spent most of yesterday with Pat and the twins. Struggling to deal with anxious agitated children can form a bond. I began to feel very close to Pat and her troubles. I think I might be able to talk to her. I'd like to try.'

‘We cannot place civilians in danger, madam,' said the superintendent at the same time that Alan said, ‘It's out of the question, Dorothy. The risk is too great!'

‘The risk to whom? If you think there's a chance that Pat might harm the children, I'll concede. But I don't think she would. In fact, I don't really know why she's holed up in there at all. Yes, she wants to save her own skin, if she thinks we've worked out what she did. But we don't know what she's thinking, about Nigel or Frieda or the children or any part of the whole mess! I'd like to talk to her and find out what she wants. Surely that's a reasonable thing to do.'

Alan and the superintendent looked at each other. Finally Alan said, ‘Very well, Dorothy. But I insist that you take some precautions. Talk to her through a window, if we can find one open. And we will have some men – you have other men stationed here, Superintendent?'

‘Three.'

‘You will have some men near you, just in case.'

‘No,' I said flatly. ‘I go up to the house and knock on the door and go inside. It all has to seem normal and ordinary and non-threatening. That's the only way it'll work. And it's the only way I'll do it.'

‘I don't like it,' Alan muttered.

‘Alan, listen to me. If I weren't your wife, if I were just someone who knew Pat and was likely to be able to talk sense into her, you'd accept in a minute. Wouldn't you?'

Superintendent Curtis had remained tactfully silent during this exchange. Now he cleared his throat and said, tentatively, ‘The lady has a point, Mr Nesbitt. Of course, as she
is
your wife, you and she must decide. I think, myself, that it's worth a try. Now that she's explained further, I feel the risk may be negligible.'

‘I'll be careful, love, I promise I will. And if I think I'm in the slightest danger, I'll skedaddle.'

Of course he argued some more, but I won my point in the end. I knew I would. He's a sensible, intelligent man except for that one attitude about overprotecting me. He can't help it, poor dear. He's an Englishman, and the Code was drummed into him from infancy.

He had the last word. ‘If you're not out in ten minutes, I'm coming in, boots and all!'

I kissed him on the cheek and, trying to appear more courageous than I felt, pushed open the gate and walked into the grounds.

The house was an imposing one, almost coldly symmetrical, in the Georgian style. It wore a forbidding look, with all the windows tightly shut, despite the June heat. I craned my neck, while I was still hidden behind the shrubbery, and saw one window they had overlooked, high at one end of the top floor. There was no chance at all of anyone save a mountain climber entering by that one.

I took a deep breath and crunched along the gravel sweep, announcing my presence as loudly as if I'd hired the town crier. The front door, a massive mahogany affair, was firmly and intimidatingly shut. There was an old-fashioned bell pull in the wall of the house, to the right of the door, and a large lion's head knocker on the door itself. There was also, tucked discreetly away on the left, a modern electric buzzer with an intercom. That was the button I chose to push.

The house was too solid for me to hear it buzz inside. After an interval, with no response, I spoke into the intercom, quietly, gently. ‘Pat. Pat, dear, it's me, Dorothy Martin. I dropped by to see how the twins were doing. May I come in?'

Nothing. I pressed the buzzer again, holding my finger on it for a good three seconds, counted in my head.