Grave Matters (13 page)

‘Won’t your pal at Scotland Yard do it for you? He has before, I seem to remember.’

‘We haven’t got a body this time. We had then.’

‘I thought you just had a missing person the last time you started rooting around. You didn’t wait for the body to turn up.’

‘No one’s missing now.’

‘No. And no one’s acting suspiciously. One dog has died in mysterious circumstances, that’s all. What do you want to find out?’

‘What sort of people they all are. How much money they have, what they want from life – all that.’

‘Who specially?’

‘Oh, the Bruces. And Ellen, I suppose.’ He looked bleak. ‘And everyone else in the village. I went back there last night.’

‘Whatever for?’ Jane stared.

‘I don’t know. Some odd compulsion. I’m still worried about my old ladies.’

‘What happened last night, then?’

‘Absolutely nothing, except that I found this.’ He prodded his newspaper parcel. ‘It’s an album of Slade House photographs. It was in the shed at Mulberry Cottage buried under some old newspapers and magazines. It’s pretty ancient. Is there the slightest chance that you’d recognise anyone? I’ve looked through them myself but they’re meaningless to me.’

He wanted to wipe out all possibility of Ellen being involved in any scheme to harm Carol Bruce. She could not be a party to any such act, and if David were in any way wanting to threaten his wife, the sooner he was exposed and Ellen disillusioned the better.

‘Let’s have a look,’ said Jane. ‘You’d recognise Valerie, wouldn’t you? But people change so. I hope I’ve improved since then.’

‘Valerie didn’t go there. She was educated abroad somewhere,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s rather grubby,’ he warned, handing her the album.

‘Hm. Sniffs a bit, doesn’t it? Why on earth was it in the shed?’

‘I can’t imagine. Perhaps it got thrown out by mistake.’

‘Maybe Valerie put it out there meaning to give it to the dustmen. She must have done a lot of sorting after Amelia died.’

‘I don’t think she’s got around to much of it yet. I expect she had to wait for valuers and things, for probate, and apart from the books I doubt if anything else has been done. Miss Amelia must have been a pretty orderly sort of person, I shouldn’t think she left a muddle.’

Jane turned the first page. Some schoolgirls in gym-slips looked at her with plain round faces. ‘They all look alike,’ she said. ‘Plaits prevail, don’t they? Funny how fashions come back and we’re longhaired again now.’ She scrutinised the faded prints. ‘So you want to know about the Bruces, do you? You think friend David married Carol for her lolly and that’s why he won’t leave her and run off with your Ellen.’

‘She’s not my Ellen. But why doesn’t he? And why move to the very village where Ellen has connections?’

‘Try to stay objective, ducky,’ Jane advised. ‘He may not have been entangled with Ellen when he bought the house – it doesn’t take long to start an affair, after all.’

‘Or else it may have been sheer brazen nerve,’ said Patrick. ‘Installing himself on her doorstep.’

‘But he must have begun to negotiate for the house before Amelia died. These things take ages.’

‘Exactly. And Ellen used to stay with Amelia sometimes. She said the old girl was trying to educate her.’

‘The old girl would have had something to say if Ellen was carrying on with David in the boskage,’ Jane remarked. ‘Look, here’s Miss Amelia and Miss Forrest.’

Sure enough, there was Miss Amelia, upright and with dark hair; and beside her stood Miss Forrest looking quite plump. Five other women were with them.

‘That’s surely Miss Chesterfield,’ said Jane. ‘Golly, doesn’t she look young! We thought her antique. Sofa, we called her, poor thing.’

‘Who was she?’

Jane pointed out a smiling young woman wearing a blouse and pleated skirt.

‘She taught history. She can only have been a girl when this was taken. Look at her smooth cheeks.’

Miss Chesterfield did look very young, Patrick agreed.

‘Where is she now?’ he asked.

‘Goodness, I don’t know – yes, I do remember what happened to her,’ Jane said. ‘She married a parson and went out to some place in Africa. There was a whip-round for her among her former pupils and I coughed up because she taught me a lot and but for her efforts I wouldn’t have scraped into our great university.’

‘Is she still out there?’

‘I’ve no idea. Probably. People get the call and stay in those places for ever, don’t they? Or get killed by rebels.’

‘Which bit of Africa? Any idea?’

‘None,’ said Jane tranquilly. ‘But I expect the Slade House secretary will have a note of her address.’

‘Will you get it, Jane? Do it tomorrow. Make some excuse. Miss Chesterfield-that-was might be in England now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a feeling we may need someone who knows about Slade House in Amelia’s days.’

‘Well, most of the old brigade of the staff will be dead, I should think,’ Jane said. ‘But probably old Chesterfield’s minding lots of little sofas somewhere. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Do you crack ghastly jokes like that to Michael?’ Patrick asked her.

‘Sometimes. He thinks I’m very amusing,’ Jane said.

‘I suppose he’s got to humour you, in your condition,’ said Patrick, but he was grinning, which was something, Jane thought, having striven to make him smile. ‘Thanks. Your Mrs. Sofa would be able to put names to most of the people in this book, wouldn’t she?’

‘I’m sure she would. But I don’t see how that will help.’

‘Suppose someone in the village had been to Slade House—’ he paused. ‘Miss Amelia would have known them.’

‘Patrick, are you thinking that there’s someone who’s photograph may be in this album, who blotted her Slade House copybook so that Miss Amelia chucked the whole thing out – maybe meaning to go through it later but instead left it in the shed?’

‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know where that gets us.’

‘One thing’s certain,’ Jane said, turning another page. ‘Oh?’

‘These are the bright girls. They’re the Sixth Form or the scholarship set – look, some of them are labelled like that. It should help to put names to them. Amelia wouldn’t have bothered with the dunderheads. I should think this one, for instance, is the head girl of the day; look at how she’s sitting, all busty and proud.’

‘There’d be records at the school of who was in what form and when?’

‘Bound to be. Surely all schools must keep files like that? But I can’t go as far as that for you, Patrick. I’ll ask for Chesterfield’s address, that’s fair enough. The rest will have to wait. If you stumble on anything concrete the police will be able to check.’

‘If no one else falls down stairs first,’ said Patrick.

‘I can’t see why you’re so obsessed with this idea,’ said Jane. ‘Your steely heart has got itself affected at long last, and it’s gone to your brain. You’re demented, my poor brother.’

‘I hope that’s all it is,’ Patrick said heavily. ‘Jane, there’s one other thing you can do for me. You’re quite fit now, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, fine. Just bone idle.’

‘Are you fit enough to come with me to Meldsmead, have a noggin at the pub, and if necessary do a fake faint outside the vicarage or some other house?’

‘So that we can lawfully get in? Only one house?’

‘Well, one to start with.’

‘The things I do for you,’ she sighed. ‘Why?’

‘I want you to meet some of the natives. There’ll be a few in the pub. We’ll play it by ear from there.’

‘Will I meet the fair Ellen?’

‘That’s not in my plan,’ said Patrick. ‘Oh. Pity. Your female intuition might stumble on something. I’ve met several husbands but not their wives – something rum may be going on that I haven’t thought of.’

‘Someone other than Ellen fancying David Bruce and putting yew berries in Carol’s tea, you mean,’ Jane said.

‘I deplore your phraseology, but that’s the general idea,’ he said. Mrs. Merry had, on her own admission, made tea for Carol, but that was after she was sick. There may have been other ministering angels at work earlier. ‘I rather favour the idea that Abbot’s Lodge could have been used as
rendezvous
for something or other,’ Patrick went on.

‘My suggestion.’ Jane preened herself.

‘But what? Lovers’ meetings? Very uncomfortable in an empty house.’

‘You could take a li-lo along, I suppose,’ Jane said. ‘But wouldn’t it be risky, right under the nose of the other spouse?’

‘It’s so isolated, and so handy. Ideal for brief meetings,’ Patrick said.

‘But mightn’t it have been used by a different set of people than those you’ve met? The young people – ordinary village people?’

‘Easily. And I don’t see how we’d find that out. But if someone’s trying to scare Carol off, it should be possible to find out who it is.’

‘Only by watching the place night and day,’ said Jane.

‘Even that’s not impossible to manage,’ Patrick said.

‘It’s like a sort of voodoo thing, isn’t it? You’ll be finding a wax image of the wretched Carol speared through the middle next,’ said Jane. ‘I feel very sorry for that girl. Her husband’s having an affair with Ellen, and spooks are getting at her almost daily. Do you like her?’ She shot the question at him.

‘I don’t really know,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve only met her once, and to be quite honest, I was taking more notice of Ellen. She seemed very thrilled with the house – full of plans for improving it. A very efficient woman – strong personality.’

‘Attractive?’

‘Not my type,’ he said promptly. ‘But I should think so, yes. Well turned out.’

‘You didn’t see her the day the dog died?’

‘No. She drove back after I’d left.’

‘She’s lucky to have one of those Lancias. They cost a
bomb,’
said Jane. ‘Where had she been that day?’

‘Chatting someone up or photographing them for a piece she was writing, I believe,’ said Patrick.

‘Must be keen, working on a Sunday.’

‘Maybe it was someone not available in the week.’

‘Maybe it was a dishy man. If David’s playing around, why shouldn’t she?’

‘That’s a thought,’ said Patrick. ‘Maybe she began it, and that’s why David strayed.’

‘But all this is supposition, Patrick. It’s all ifs.’

‘These things always are. First find a theory, then see if you can prove it,’ he an’I believe you’re afraid that Miss Forrest had found out Ellen was playing around with David, and meant, in the mantle of Miss Amelia, to tell her off, or even threaten to tell Carol, and Ellen pushed her down the stairs, having got the idea because Miss Amelia had died that way,’ Jane said.

‘It would have been physically possible for her to have done it. She could have met Miss Forrest on the landing of the front stairs at the B.M. She could have taken her arm and led her, then shoved her. Miss Forrest would have suspected nothing; Ellen could have rushed on upwards, gone round the building and reappeared in the hall below while all the confusion was still going on.’

‘She ran the risk of being recognised.’

‘She could have chosen her moment for pushing Miss Forrest, waiting till no one was around. And she could have worn a mackintosh and taken it off, or the other way round,’ said Patrick.

‘You don’t really believe she did do that, do you? You couldn’t have a yen for her if you think her capable of such an awful thing.’

‘No, I don’t believe it.’

‘But you won’t be happy till you’ve proved it, one way or the other. I see. Hm. Well, by all means let’s go to Meldsmead. I’ll park Andrew or get a sitter, if it’s likely to be a late do. Michael will want to be in on this. I presume you don’t want me to hold a torch while you exhume that unfortunate dog?’

‘Not this time, no,’ said Patrick, perfectly seriously. ‘If it’s necessary, Michael and I can manage that on our own.’

Ellen had tried several times to gain entry to Miss Forrest’s bedsitter in Kensington, but each time she called the landlady was out, and no one else answered when she rang the bell. The other tenants must all be either deaf or totally absorbed in whatever they were doing to the exclusion of all other sounds, she decided. She had heard loud electronic music on one visit coming from somewhere overhead; it was so noisy that she was not surprised no one heard her ring. On her fourth attempt, however, she was successful. It was six o’clock in the evening, and the door was opened to her by a brassily blonde woman of about fifty wearing a purple caftan and many necklaces. Both the flowing robe and its wearer looked rather grubby; Miss Forrest was unlikely to have felt comfortable under the rule of such a chatelaine, Ellen thought, staring in surprise at the vision in the doorway, and what of Amelia on her visits? Though she had slept in a neighbouring hotel she must sometimes have come here.

She pulled herself together, for the woman was looking at her in an impatient manner.

‘Well?’ she asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and causing her necklaces to sway on her chest.

‘Miss Mildred Forrest lived here?’ asked Ellen, with some diffidence.

‘That’s right. Dead, though, she is. Had an accident, poor old thing,’ said the blonde, preparing to close the door.

‘I know. She—she had a book of mine. Cicero’s
Orations
, volume five of the Oxford edition,’ said Ellen. ‘I wonder if it’s still here in her room?’

‘Oh, one of them school books of hers, was it, dear? Well, sorry, you’re too late. Gentleman’s got it. Must have.’

So David had got here before her. Why hadn’t he let her know? But the landlady was still talking.

‘Lady’s brother, it was. Come from Surrey somewhere, after the funeral. He took all her things, not that there were many. I’ve let the room again now, to a nice young fellow. Plays in a group, he does. Don’t want it standing idle, do I?’

Ellen supposed not.

‘Just as well she didn’t die here. Gives a place a bad name, people don’t want the room after, not that it does to be choosy these days.’

‘Were there no letters? She hadn’t left anything for anybody else?’ Ellen asked.

‘Not that I know of, dear, but then the gentleman would see to all that, I expect.’ Relenting a little, the blonde grew more forthcoming. ‘Kept herself to herself, she did, Miss Forrest. Been here years, I believe. Most of the tenants come and go, but she stayed on forever, like the song says. I didn’t know her well myself, but she had turned poorly-looking just lately. Can’t say I was surprised, not really. Overdid it, at her age, all that studying.’