Blood From a Stone (23 page)

‘Spell it out for me, Wood,' said Jack quietly. ‘What's in your mind?'

Wood ran a distracted hand through his hair. ‘Are they dead?'

‘You're still not spelling it out.'

‘All right, I will. Have they been murdered? I know it seems incredible, but what other explanation is there? Now you've worked out the Vicar's involved anything's possible.'

Jack held up his hand for silence. A sound came from below. ‘There's someone there,' he said quietly.

They got up and walked to where the trapdoor to the loft opened out to the old stable below. The old boarded floor creaked beneath them.

A middle-aged, smartly dressed woman was standing at the bottom of the ladder. ‘Mr Wood? Major Haldean?' she called.

‘Mrs Hawker?' said Wood in surprise. He swung himself onto the ladder and climbed down, Jack following behind.

Mary Hawker held out her hand to Jack. ‘We haven't met. I'm Mary Hawker. I believe you're looking into Mrs Paxton's death.'

‘That, and other things,' he said with a smile, squinting in the early evening sun slanting through the barn door.

Isabelle had described Mary Hawker very well, he thought. A sensible, grey-haired woman with a briskly efficient air, who he could well imagine being the mainstay of various local committees. As Jack took her outstretched hand, however, he caught a fleeting glimpse of something else.

She looked from him to Wood and back to him, with a sudden, intent stare. She's frightened, he thought, with that sudden stab of insight which is hardly ever wrong, and then, as he saw the expression in her troubled brown eyes, added another layer to his first impression. For some reason she was frightened of
him
.

She gave a little insincere laugh. ‘I've come to tell you it's time to get ready for dinner. It's still quite early but I thought you'd both want a bath after being up in the hayloft.' She turned and walked to the door. She cleared her throat and said, rather too firmly, ‘I've only just arrived.'

It was such an unnecessary statement it made Jack pause. The sunlight illuminated her footprints in the dust. She was wearing shoes with a raised squared-off heel. He glanced back to where the ladder stood, leading up to the hayloft. By the foot of the ladder were quite a lot of footprints with a raised, squared-off heel. Mary Hawker had obviously been standing in the barn listening to them for some time.

Why?

L
eonard Duggleby perched himself on the stone balustrade of the terrace, looking out onto the sunlit gardens. Breagan Grange was a lovely house. It might have suffered from neglect but, compared to the squalor of Murchinson's Rents, it was an earthly paradise. He could be happy here ...

He turned round at the sound of his name. Celia had come onto the terrace.

‘I wondered where you had got to, Len.' She sized up the balustrade, then hitched herself onto it, beside him. ‘I was so interested in hearing you tell us all about the cave this afternoon. I've always been a bit bored by all that ancient history, but you really made it come alive.' She paused. ‘You're a very talented man.'

Duggleby looked sheepishly embarrassed at the compliment. ‘It's a real pleasure to be able to find out about a place like this, without having to think of an angle, as they say in journalism. What I'd like to do is to find out as much about Euthius as I can. I'm hoping that the British Museum may help.'

‘That's the real you, isn't it?' said Celia. ‘An academic, I mean. You should be in a university, not Fleet Street.'

Duggleby laughed hollowly. ‘That was never an option, I'm afraid. I'm just glad to be here, even if it's only for a short time. I'll never forget it, nor all your kindness to me.'

Celia paused. ‘I don't want you to go away,' she said softly. ‘Ted doesn't appreciate this place. You do.' She glanced away. ‘Knowing you has made me wonder about Ted. I don't know if he's right for me.'

Duggleby's sheepishness increased. ‘Celia,' he began awkwardly, then stopped. ‘Look,' he said in a rush. ‘I don't know quite how to put this, but I don't want to come between you and anyone else. You deserve all the good things in life, things I can't possibly give you.'

She looked at him earnestly and something in his expression made her catch her breath. ‘Dear Len,' she said softly. ‘There's always a way.'

In her room, Isabelle had dressed early for dinner. The dinner gong wouldn't sound till eight and she had acres of time on her hands. She walked idly to the window. The sun was on the terrace, but so was Leonard Duggleby, perched on the stone balustrade, chatting to Celia. That ruled out the terrace. She'd had quite enough of the god Euthius for one day.

The portrait gallery? That was a thought. She'd been whizzed through the gallery at great speed by Celia, who obviously thought her ancestors were the frozen limit of dullness, but Isabelle wouldn't mind filling in half an hour or so with a closer look at the pictures. Picking up her beaded bag, she walked along the corridor to the gallery.

The gallery itself was worth seeing, a long L-shaped, high-ceilinged room of beautiful classical proportions with arched windows looking onto the grounds. The low evening sun brought out the rich honey colours of the old oak of the floorboards and panelling. A door, midway along the room, had stairs leading, she knew, to the lower corridor and down to the main hall.

The faces in the portraits were fascinating. A seventeenth-century maiden, looking dopily at a dove, was a tubbier and dimmer version of Celia. A Cavalier, with a startling resemblance to Frank Leigh, regarded her with his painted eyes, doffing his feathered hat. An eighteenth-century divine, in high collar, full wig and sober clothing, Bible in hand, made her pause. He had a fleeting resemblance to ... who?

She couldn't place it, but she'd seen that face before. His name was Ebenezer Leigh. There was a catalogue at the far end of the room that might tell her more about Ebenezer. She walked round the corner of the L to the catalogue when she heard the floorboards creak. Someone had come into the gallery.

Isabelle looked round the corner. Frank Leigh was standing, pocket watch in hand, in the middle of the room. She was about to say hello, when she suddenly noticed the tension in his stance. Feeling like an intruder, she drew back.

The door midway along the gallery opened and Mary Hawker came in. Her shoulders sagged in relief as she saw Frank. She crossed to him quickly and put her hands on his arms.

‘Oh, my dear, thank heavens you're here. Frank, I'm worried.'

My dear?
thought Isabelle. That was very friendly.

She darted a look up and down the gallery. ‘We're alone, aren't we? I'm sure Evie's door opened as I went past.'

‘Relax,' Frank said soothingly. ‘Evie's picking out what to wear for dinner. She won't be ready for ages. No one comes up here at this time of day.' He held her hands between his. ‘Calm down, Mary. What on earth is it?'

At this point Isabelle's conscience won over her curiosity. She was about to tactfully cough and make enough noise for Frank Leigh and Mary Hawker to stand a decent distance apart before she came round the corner, when Mrs Hawker's next remark drew her up sharp.

‘You must get rid of Major Haldean, Frank. He's dangerous. I overheard him talking to Wood. He's going to get to the truth. He's a clever man. Dangerously clever.'

‘Dangerous?' Frank Leigh's voice was sharp with apprehension and then he gave a very unconvincing laugh. ‘Nonsense. Why should the truth be dangerous?'

Mary Hawker gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Frank! Don't pretend you don't understand. This is murder we're talking about. I don't blame you but this is
murder
.'

Isabelle held her breath.

Frank Leigh choked. ‘I ... I didn't know you knew.'

‘Don't be an idiot, Frank. How on earth could I
not
know? Why on earth did you ask Major Haldean here?'

‘Celia was all for it,' muttered Frank. ‘What could I say? I couldn't refuse. That'd look far too fishy. It'll be all right, Mary. Haldean's not as clever as you think. After all, he thinks it was Sandy Paxton who was murdered on the train. I just can't believe it.'

Mary Hawker gave a snort of impatience. ‘I don't care about the man on the train. He's not important. I'm telling you, Frank, Major Haldean is dangerous. You have to get rid of him.' She paused and added, with an odd inflection in her voice, ‘You have to get rid of Wood, too.'

It was a few moments before Frank Leigh replied and then he said very quietly, ‘I can't.'

‘You must!' Mrs Hawker spoke rapidly and Isabelle could tell she was close to tears. ‘If Major Haldean finds out about him ... I care about
you.
You're running your head into a noose. You have to act, Frank.' She gave a little, breathless gulp. ‘I ... I care. You don't know how much I care.' Her voice wavered and she broke into sobs.

Isabelle risked another swift glance round the corner. Frank Leigh, his arms round Mary Hawker, was holding her close. Isabelle drew back again, but as she did, a tiny movement from the door to the stairs caught her eye. She could see a flash of brilliant scarlet in the thin crack of the open door, then it swung closed very quietly and the catch clicked into place. Neither Frank Leigh or Mary Hawker heard the snick of the door.

‘Chin up,' said Frank Leigh softly. ‘Courage, my dear. We have to act naturally at dinner. Don't let anyone guess there's anything wrong.'

‘I won't.' When she spoke again, her voice was steadier. ‘Promise me you'll act, Frank.'

Frank Leigh took a deep breath. ‘I'll do what I think is best. Trust me, Mary. Now, off you go.'

Isabelle heard her footsteps on the oak boards then, after a short time, Frank Leigh sighed heavily and left in his turn.

Isabelle waited for quite a while before she walked out into the gallery. She opened the door to the staircase where she'd seen that tell-tale flash of scarlet. Lingering in the doorway was the whiff of a distinctive, expensive scent.

Both the scent and the colour belonged to Evie Leigh. What had she made of the scene in the gallery?

‘Mrs Hawker wants to get rid of you,' said Isabelle. She was in Jack's room. ‘She was frightened, Jack. She's obviously head over heels about Mr Leigh. I think she'd do anything to protect him.'

Jack, his hands moving without any conscious thought, carried on dressing for dinner. ‘And Evie Leigh was listening, you say? I wonder what she made of it?'

‘It's not Evie Leigh I'm worried about, Jack, it's you. Mary Hawker wants Mr Leigh to get rid of you. She's dangerous.'

Jack automatically adjusted his braces and picked up his white tie. ‘Are you sure, Belle?'

‘After what I heard her say to Mr Leigh? He's a murderer, Jack. He admitted as much.'

‘But dammit, Belle, who's he murdered?'

‘I don't know! Mrs Paxton, maybe? After all, he thought he was going to inherit the sapphires.'

‘He can't have murdered Mrs Paxton. Everyone, apart from Frank Leigh, believes that Napier bumped her off. If Frank Leigh had murdered Mrs Paxton, he'd hardly go round telling the world that Napier's innocent.'

‘Couldn't it be a ploy to make us believe he's innocent?'

‘But no one ever dreamt he was guilty!'

‘What about Sandy Paxton, then? The man on the train, I mean? No, hang on, that won't work. Mr Leigh doesn't think it was Sandy Paxton,' she added in a disappointed voice. ‘Actually,' she said, brightening, ‘that doesn't matter, does it? He can still have killed him, no matter who he thought he was.'

‘We'd worked out that the Vicar was the murderer, Belle. You can't honestly tell me you believe Frank Leigh's the Vicar. That's too goofy for words.'

‘I don't really believe it, I suppose,' said Isabelle, wrinkling her nose. ‘I was just trying to think of who it could be.'

Jack turned to the mirror and knotted his tie with an irritated frown, then his hands slowed. ‘Wood thinks Mrs Paxton's servants have been murdered.'

‘The servants? Why on earth should anyone kill them?'

‘God knows. Because they knew too much, I suppose. If they do know anything, it has to be about Napier, but what is anyone's guess. And why pick them off one by one? It just doesn't stack up.'

‘
Who
then?' said Isabelle in frustration. ‘Mr Leigh admitted to murder, Jack. Mrs Hawker said he was running his head into a noose. He didn't contradict her. What is it about Wood that she's so afraid of you finding out? Could Wood have murdered someone, perhaps?'

‘Blimey, Belle, they can't all be murderers.'

‘Well, what then? Mr Leigh employed Wood to prove Terence Napier was innocent, so Wood's done a fair old bit of digging around. Could it be something Wood's found out or is going to find out?'

‘From what you said, it sounded more as if I was going to find out something about Wood.'

‘Yes ...' Isabelle sat up straight in her chair. ‘Jack! I've got it! Wood isn't Wood at all!' Her eyes shone with the light of discovery. ‘
He's Terence Napier.
Who would Napier turn to if he's been hunted by the police? Mr Leigh, of course ...' Her voice trailed off. ‘What are you grinning at me like that for?'

‘I thought of that,' said Jack with a laugh. ‘It's obvious. Wood can't be Napier. He went to Topfordham and had a long talk to the Mountfords. They'd have recognised him.'

‘Yes, I suppose they would,' said Isabelle with a frustrated sigh. ‘But if that's not it, Jack, what is it?'

‘I'm dammed if I know,' said Jack, shrugging on his coat. ‘Mrs Hawker seems very certain I'm on the edge of the truth. I only wish I was.'

Isabelle shuddered. ‘Mrs Hawker's not to be trusted, Jack.' She laid her hand on his arm. ‘She's a very determined woman and I'd say she's really stuck on Mr Leigh.'