Blood Will Out (12 page)

“G
andalf?”

Beside him in the Triumph, Liz chuckled. It was good to hear.

“When Elodie first told me about Shawcross, I was worried. Not for any real reason, but because he sounded creepy, and she lives on her own. She said he looked like Gandalf and she could take him on if she had to.”

“After what Dr. Edwards said, that seems less likely. But the creepy part holds up.”

“Doesn't it, though. Is that why you've got Bernie Mauger looking for satanic rituals, and all that stuff?”

“That's why. And it's why I've got Al Brown out at the hermit's place again.”

Moretti thought of telling Falla about his last conversation with Al.

“How do you feel about hanging around overnight? Take the Honda in with you, out of sight. Someone came back the night after Dorey died. It could have been the murderer, or it could have been his laundryperson. Interesting, either way.”

He decided to leave it for the time being.

“That's a nice place your aunt has,” he continued. “Is she in the offshore business?”

“Not in the way you mean, Guv, but in a way she is. She's a medical researcher, editor and illustrator, and she handles it all through the Internet. But that fab cottage comes courtesy of a divorce settlement, she told me. More than that I don't know. Why?”

“Just curious.” Moretti changed the subject. “Do you think you can handle Marie Maxwell?”

Moretti felt, rather than saw, the look Falla gave him.

“If you don't think I can, Guv, why aren't you doing the interview?”

“Because I want her to feel reasonably superior and reasonably comfortable with someone she thinks she can push around.”

Beside him, Liz snorted.

“Chances are that Marla is in school right now, and I leave you to use your judgment about whether to tell her about her daughter's Beau Sejour revelation. She might open up to another woman, particularly if she's worried about her daughter. But don't let her know you've heard about the play-reading incident, or that your aunt talked to you. See if she volunteers the information first.”

“Will do. Anything you want me to concentrate on?”

“Any possible link between Gus Dorey's death, Hamelin's social call and the Gastineau family. But tread carefully. We don't want to be warned off by Hanley.”

Moretti turned into the paved courtyard outside the erstwhile Gastineau town mansion, and brought the Triumph to a halt in front of a splendid front entrance between two pillars.

“Don't worry, Guv. I'll play it just as I did with her silver-haired messenger-boy.”

“God help her, Falla.”

She laughed as she walked away from him, the spring back in her step.

Moretti waited until he saw the front door open, and Falla go in, then turned the Triumph around in the courtyard and headed back up the Grange in the direction of St. Martin. No need to tell her he was going to interview her godmother, and put Falla on the horns of a professional and personal dilemma.

In the few hours between returning home late at night, and the meeting with Chief Officer Hanley that morning, Moretti had done little sleeping and much thinking, and most of his thought processes involved Liz Falla's aunt. Her presence of mind and her relationship with Falla had impeded impartiality of thought, and it had taken a while before objectivity replaced sympathy.

Had she met the blood-stained Shawcross at her door, as she said? Or had they been together at his house after the play-reading? Her godmother had openly admitted to Falla that she had encouraged both him and Marie Maxwell, and it was clear from what Falla had said of the evening spent with her and the self-professed vampire that he fancied Elodie Ashton. Which was not such a surprise, but perhaps they had more in common than an academic interest in theatre. After all, Elodie Ashton had found him too pushy, according to Falla, when he first moved in, and then had asked him to dinner. And the dinner invitation had come after Falla had told her about Marie Maxwell's complaint to the chief officer.

The coral-pink roof of Elodie Ashton's cottage glowed in the autumn sunshine as Moretti pulled up in the driveway. It was isolated enough in the peaceful bucolic setting of St. Martin not to have attracted a curious crowd of onlookers when emergency services had arrived the night before, and in this neck of the woods the well-heeled householders who were Elodie Ashton's neighbours would have wanted nothing to do with domestic disturbances in the small hours.

SOCO were back at the cottage, and Moretti had specifically asked them to look out for any other footprints besides Hugo Shawcross's on the bloodied path, and not just at the site of the initial struggle. It should have been an unnecessary request, but Al Brown's observations were worrying.

From the front of the property, the only sign of anything unusual was the incident van, parked ahead of Moretti's Triumph; its occupants were presumably all at work in the back garden, from where Moretti could hear the sound of voices. He decided to walk around and make it appear as if that were the purpose of his visit. As he started to follow the path around the side of the cottage, the front door opened.

“Detective Inspector.”

Elodie Ashton came out to meet him.

She had tied her spectacular hair back into a ponytail, and was wearing glasses, which did something to lessen the impact of both hair and eyes. Her dress was decidedly casual — she was enveloped in a baggy sweater and track pants that had seen better days. The oversize clothes made her seem even smaller, more vulnerable, and Moretti reminded himself that it was not always good things that came in small packages.

“Ms. Ashton, good morning. I was just on my way round to talk to the forensics people. I hope they have not been too much of an inconvenience. DS Falla tells me you work from home.”

“Not much of that this morning, Detective Inspector.” She gave a ragged laugh. “Might just as well not have bothered to put on my specs. Would I be right in thinking you need to talk to me as well as the forensics crew?”

“You would.”

No point in beating around the bush with this lady, so Moretti followed her into the cottage.

The afternoon sun filled the interior with light, unimpeded by walls. As they passed the kitchen area, Moretti saw exposed brickwork, a magnificent fireplace, copper pans catching the light. A bowl of bronze and yellow chrysanthemums stood on the kitchen table, and on the back of the large kitchen range something savoury was simmering in a sizeable stockpot.

“That smells good.”

“Making stock is a more productive way to spend the morning than pretending to work. I find cooking as soothing as —” She hesitated.

“Chopin?”

She didn't laugh, but answered seriously. “That's a difficult one to answer. Depends on the stress, perhaps. I was about to have a coffee, which is also good for stress. Would you like one, Detective Inspector?”

“Please.”

Elodie Ashton indicated the sofa on which she had sat the night before with Falla, and returned to the kitchen. The living area and the kitchen extended down the right side of the cottage, and what must have been smaller windows at the back had been replaced by a large picture window looking onto the garden. The staircase had been left where it originally was, but was now open, its polished boards curving into space to the upper floor. Presumably at one time the kitchen had been at the back of the cottage, because what would have been the original kitchen door remained, alongside the long, curved window, through which Moretti could see Jimmy Le Poidevin and his merry men, working away.

“Here we are.”

Elodie Ashton handed Moretti a boldly decorated pottery mug of coffee, and sat down opposite him, removing her glasses. Her eyes were blue, not green, as he had thought.

Once enquiries about cream and sugar were over, Moretti said, indicating the garden, “You'll be glad when that's finished.”

“Actually, I don't mind having them there for a while. They are rather a cheerful bunch, whistling away. Company beyond a pane of glass, but minimal contact. Quite nice.”

Moretti had no problem agreeing with that.

“Good coffee,” he said. “DS Falla tells me you work from home, in the field of medical research.”

“Yes. But I'm not one of those geniuses who make great discoveries in labs. My job is to put those discoveries and theses and reports into plain English. Well, as plain as possible in what is often really obscure and esoteric subject matter.”

“So you must have a good grasp of a wide range of medical disciplines to do that.”

“I have.” Elodie Ashton did not elaborate, but pointed to a door to their left. “When the renovations were done, I had the original interior wall on that side left in place, and set up my office in there. It looks on to a little copse of trees, which is pleasant, but private.”

“I understand you started your career on the mainland. Had you ever run into Hugo Shawcross before? I know you told my partner you introduced yourself after hearing about the complaint over the play, but I thought I'd just get that question out of the way.”

The blue eyes were now flashing fire, which Moretti had not previously thought possible for blue eyes, even if you had red hair.

“Are you suggesting I might have lied to Liz? She was the one who brought up the subject of vampirism, I did this to help her, and walked into an attempted murder. Now I wonder if I will ever be able to look out on to my garden again without seeing him. Let alone thinking about who might be waiting out there for me, in the dark. I think you're suggesting, Detective Inspector, I tried to kill poor little Gandalf.”

Moretti kept his voice level. “So the first time you heard about the play and Mrs. Maxwell's complaint was when your goddaughter told you.”

“Yes.” The blue eyes were now looking sceptically at him. “You are wondering, aren't you, if this was some kind of sick game that went wrong. Right?”

“Right.”

A waste of time prevaricating with this woman. She was as sharp as — well, her godchild.

“Look.” Elodie Ashton put her coffee mug down on the table between them. “You don't know me, but if you did, you'd know that introducing myself to Hugo Shawcross and inviting him into my home was out of character. It was a spur of the moment thing, done for Liz. I like my own company and the company of others in groups — like the Island Players, for instance. I'm good at parties and bad at tête-à-têtes. For me, there is safety in numbers. I like — distance.”

“Company beyond a pane of glass.” In many ways, she was describing him, thought Moretti. Not that he was good at parties either. “Believe it or not, I understand.”

“I believe you.”

She seemed about to add something, but stopped, which made Moretti wonder what Falla might have said about him to her godmother.

“So you went out of character for your goddaughter. Was it as entirely altruistic as that? Or did your invitation have just a little to do with the challenge of taking on a Gastineau?”

“Just a little.” Elodie Ashton smiled, relaxing back into her chair, and Moretti found himself smiling back. “Quite a lot, actually. I enjoy being part of the Island Players, and Marie Maxwell is gradually taking over. It is turning from a comradeship, if there is such a word, into a dictatorship. I couldn't resist it, and look what happened.”

Elodie picked up her coffee mug from the table, and looked into it, as though she were reading the coffee grinds. The smile had gone, and Moretti could no longer see the expression in her eyes. “I am, Detective Inspector, the last person to involve myself with anything to do with blood play or the undead.”

“Care to explain?”

“No. It's — personal. Nothing to do with all this. I was going to help with the play, but I'd opted out of performing. Still, I imagine the whole project is now kaput.” She looked up at him, her feelings under control again. “How
is
Hugo Shawcross? I should have asked before, but I don't want to think about last night anymore than I can help.”

“He's doing remarkably well, thanks to you, not talking yet, but has already requested paper to write down what he wants.”
Leave it at that,
he thought.
No need to tell her it's just about the cat
.

“Good to hear.” She turned away and looked out of the window. “I wonder if they've found anything.”

Moretti stood up. Looking out of the window clearly signalled the end of Elodie Ashton's co-operation, but there was little more to gain by continuing now, and best to leave her to mull over what he had suggested.
Not much mulling to do, though
, he thought. Still, he didn't see her as a game-player. Not this type of game, but there was definitely something she was holding back.

“Thank you for the coffee. I'll go and talk to them.” He indicated the door that led into the back garden. “Is it all right to go that way?”

“Of course. Mr. Le Poidevin told me I could use it now. Sorry I yelled at you.”

She didn't sound very sorry.

“It comes with the job. I've heard worse.”

She walked over to the door and unlocked it. “Liz enjoys working with you — her Guvnor, she calls you. One thing —” Elodie Ashton turned back to Moretti, looking up into his face. Seen from above, she had quite an arrogant curve to her nose. “I gather you haven't heard her sing? She's good, you know.”

“So I've been told.”
Time for a swift exit
, he thought.

“In her own way, as good as you.”

Taken by surprise, and before Moretti had time to respond, Elodie stood back in the doorway, and indicated the path along which she had seen Hugo Shawcross struggling towards her, drenched in his own blood.

“I'll leave you to it,” she said, “I'm locking myself in again.”