Hollow Crown (31 page)

‘And what about Mrs Scannon?’ Edward, without meaning to, sounded as though he disapproved of Miss Conway taking so much pleasure in being rich.

‘She is virtually comatose, I’m afraid. The doctors say she may die at any moment.’ She had the grace to look a little guilty. ‘I have done everything I can for her. She
doesn’t need me now. There’s a family tomb in the village churchyard. Leo’s father liked owning property,’ she said with a trace of rancour. ‘I loved them both, you
know,’ she added after a pause, as though she wanted to make them understand that she wasn’t without feeling. ‘Even the old woman – though she never loved me. Even when I
was a child, she never kissed me or hugged me. I suppose I was a living reminder of her husband’s infidelity.’

Edward was moved to ask, ‘Tell me to shut up if I’m speaking out of turn but, to me, Leo was a cold fish. Could you really love him? You were grateful to him for having been your
protector – I understand that – but for years you were treated like a servant . . . I can’t work it out. On the one hand, he was your benefactor but, after what happened to your
mother, it would have been quite natural for you to have resented being nurse to Mrs Scannon.’

‘It’s difficult to explain. In books love and hate seem black and white. Either you feel one thing or the other. In real life – in mine anyway – it was different. I
certainly didn’t love Leo as a woman. I mean, I wasn’t
in love
with him and he certainly didn’t love me in that way – or at least I never felt that he did. I suppose
I always knew he wasn’t interested in girls. I knew instinctively that he didn’t love anyone except his mother so it was a sort of compliment being entrusted with her, but we came to
feel . . . I don’t know . . . an affection for one another. Partly habit but . . . we understood each other – I suppose that was it.’

‘Presumably, it was Leo who told you about your mother, how she died . . . ?’

‘Yes, I only knew she had disappeared from my life and, as you do as a child, you grieve but you accept. I had just one photograph of her which I used to keep under my pillow until it
became really creased and battered. Then I put it in my Bible. One day – it must have been when I was fourteen, yes, it was my birthday – Leo came to my room to give me my present. He
happened to open the Bible and saw the photograph. He asked who it was – because, of course, he had never seen my mother and, when I told him, he told me everything he knew about how she
died.’

‘But not about who your father was? Old Mr Scannon was still alive then?’ Edward asked.

‘No, but I think, looking back on it, I did know somehow.’

‘Did you not want to talk to the old man about it . . . about your mother?’

‘My first impulse was to ask him about it, but I didn’t.’

‘You were frightened of him?’ Verity guessed.

‘I was frightened of him, yes, but it wasn’t quite that. It was just that I decided that I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to have that conversation with Mr Scannon. I
was embarrassed. I don’t expect you to understand.’

‘I think I do,’ Edward said. ‘I felt the same when I was told my brother, Frank, had been killed in the first week after the expeditionary force landed in France. They told me
he died heroically – which indeed he had – and I was satisfied. I didn’t want to know the details. I wanted him to be a hero figure not a real person.’

Miss Conway looked at him gratefully. ‘You
do
understand then,’ was all she said.

After a moment, Verity pushed on. ‘So you have no idea who killed Mrs Harkness?’

‘I thought it was probably you, Lord Edward’, she said simply. ‘I didn’t know then that you had come to retrieve the letters. I thought Leo was doing that. But I knew you
had come for some reason – not just social, I mean. And you seemed determined enough. But, of course,’ she added quickly, ‘as soon as I got to know you a little, I changed my
mind.’

‘I’m glad to hear it!’ Edward said, rather unnerved to find that someone other than Pride had put him down as a cold-blooded murderer. ‘You didn’t suspect Leo? As
you say, you knew he was trying to get Molly to give up something he wanted?’

‘I certainly think he
could
have murdered. You’re right, he was rather a cold person, but he seemed to me genuinely shocked after Mrs Harkness was found dead. Didn’t you
think so, Lord Edward?’

‘I did but it was odd – Mr Harbin noticed it – he was still in the clothes he had been wearing at dinner when he came to see why we were trying to break into Molly’s
room. He’d taken off his coat and put on a dressing gown but he definitely hadn’t got into pyjamas.’

‘I didn’t know that but I still think he didn’t kill her. Why should he? He was a respected MP with a busy life. I can’t believe he would have risked all that to help Mrs
Simpson.’

‘I agree, but someone did it,’ Edward said, almost irritably. ‘Maybe there was some other motive – after all, he was murdered himself. Someone wanted him out of the
way.’

‘Inspector Lampfrey told Edward that Mr Scannon’s diary had disappeared,’ Verity said. ‘The most likely thing seems to be that Mr Scannon had seen, or at least knew, who
had killed Molly and that person was afraid of being blackmailed. You’ve no idea where the diary might be?’

‘No. The police have searched everywhere – even my rooms – and I know they have been looking in London as well.’

Edward, rather daringly, said, ‘May I be very impertinent, Miss Conway, and ask if Leo ever brought any of his . . . his friends here? I don’t mean his ordinary friends, I mean . .
.’

‘Did he ever bring his boys here, that’s what you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, he never did. You see, he would never have brought them to the house his mother lived in.’

At that moment, Pickering came in to say the puncture had been mended and Miss Conway asked if he would mind answering a few questions Lord Edward wanted to put to him about the night Mrs
Harkness died.

‘A terrible business,’ the butler said, shaking his head mournfully. ‘To think there should have been two murders in the house and the master himself . . . ’

‘Please, do sit down,’ Miss Conway said, seeing the man was actually shaking with emotion.

‘No, miss. I have never sat down in the drawing-room in my life and the master would not like it if I did now.’

‘Were you very fond of your master?’ Edward asked sympathetically.

‘He was a great man, your lordship. The famous men he knew! Why, I have welcomed three Prime Ministers to Haling,’ he said with evident pride. ‘I felt sure there would never be
another war knowing that my master and his colleagues were looking after things.’

This striking tribute to Scannon amazed Edward and Verity had to check herself from expostulating.

‘It’s a sad business,’ Edward said. ‘Tell me, Pickering, did you notice – when Mr Scannon came to help us open Mrs Harkness’s bedroom door . . . ’

‘When we found the poor lady dead, my lord?’

‘Yes. Did you notice that he had not undressed? He was wearing his evening clothes under his dressing gown.’

‘Yes, my lord, I did notice.’

‘Can you think why that was? Did Mr Scannon sleep badly?’

‘Yes, my lord. The master often stayed up half the night reading in his study or working. I did see him quite late that night with Mr Carstairs. As I prepared for bed, I happened to look
out of my window and I saw the two gentlemen in the garden.’

‘What time was this?’

‘About midnight, my lord, or perhaps a bit later. By the time we had cleared dinner, it was after eleven and the master was kind enough to tell me not to wait up until he and the other
gentlemen had gone to bed, which is what I would have expected to do.’

‘I see. So it was unusual for you to go to bed before all the guests had gone to their bedrooms?’

‘Yes, my lord, but the master was always most considerate.’

‘Did you tell the police that you saw Mr Scannon in the garden with Mr Carstairs on the night Mrs Harkness was killed?’

‘No, my lord,’ said the butler, looking troubled. ‘Should I have done? They did not ask me.’

‘No, I expect Mr Carstairs had already told them,’ Edward said soothingly. ‘I meant to ask you whether your master key, which opened the bedroom doors, could have been borrowed
or stolen?’

‘That was what the police asked me.’

‘And you said . . . ?’

‘I said the key was hanging on a hook in the pantry so it was possible a visitor – someone who knew the house – would know where to find it.’

‘And had it been borrowed?’

‘It was there when I was called to help you and the other gentleman get into Mrs Harkness’s room.’

‘But . . . ’

‘There was no reason to keep the key locked away,’ Pickering said defensively. ‘There was only one key to the safe and Mr Scannon kept that on his key-ring. The key to the
bedrooms wasn’t . . . special.’

‘No, of course not,’ Edward said reassuringly. ‘Mr Scannon kept the key to the tantalus himself?’

‘Yes, my lord. I had no key to that or to the cellar. Mr Scannon was very particular about his wines and spirits.’

‘And where were those keys kept?’

‘The key to the tantalus Mr Scannon also kept on his key-ring. The cellar key was too big so he kept it in the safe.’

‘A careful man, Mr Scannon,’ Edward said, hoping to get a reaction from the butler but in this he was disappointed. The man was not prepared to volunteer opinions about his late
employer, at least not in present company.

Miss Conway said, ‘The police have taken away the tantalus but I can assure you, Lord Edward, that Leo alone opened and closed it, as Pickering says.’

‘Forgive my ignorance,’ Verity said, ‘but what actually is a tantalus?’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Pickering, but it’s usually three or four decanters on a wooden tray. At each end of the tray there are panels that support a hinged bar which fits
over the decanters and prevents them being unstoppered. Is that right?’

‘Yes, my lord. Mr Scannon’s had a silver bar holding three decanters in place.’

‘And the bar could be locked?’ Verity asked.

‘Of course. That was the point of it,’ Edward said sharply, and Verity felt snubbed. He turned to the butler. ‘You have been most kind, Pickering. It must have been a terrible
shock for you.’

‘It was, my lord, and with the master’s mother so ill . . . ’

‘She does not know about her son . . . being murdered?’ Verity asked.

‘No,’ Miss Conway replied. ‘I wouldn’t tell her if she
were
conscious but she has not . . . ’

Edward risked one last question – the obvious one. ‘Did Mr Scannon have any enemies you knew of? Forgive me, Pickering, but a man in the public eye often makes enemies without
meaning to.’

‘Oh yes, my lord, the master had many enemies,’ the butler said, surprisingly. ‘He made a point of security. He was always afraid of someone breaking into the house.’

‘But the creeper up the walls . . . ’ Edward said. ‘Wasn’t he aware it provided an easy way for burglars to get into the house?’

‘Yes, my lord, he had just given orders for it to be cut down.’

‘Yes,’ Miss Conway said, ‘but I have decided not to go ahead. It seems it’s so deeply embedded in the mortar that there is a good chance of the house falling down if
it’s torn off the walls.’

‘I see. Well, thank you again, Pickering. I do hope our questions haven’t upset you.’

‘Not at all, my lord,’ the butler said, bowing gravely.

It was time to leave and, as they got up to go, Verity said brightly, ‘Miss Conway, would it be all right for me to take a photograph of the room I slept in – the room where Mrs
Harkness died? I don’t suppose it will come out but it could be useful.’

Ruth Conway looked doubtful. ‘I suppose so, but I can’t see why you want to. Pickering, take Miss Browne and . . . ’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Pickering. I can find my own way. I’m sure you’re very busy.’

‘While you are doing that, I’ll go and find Williams in the garden and thank him for repairing the tyre,’ Edward said.

Miss Conway seemed at a loss to know whether to accompany Verity or Edward but, in the end, she went out into the garden. Edward had hoped to have had a chance of wandering round on his own. He
particularly wanted to inspect the wall outside Molly’s room but that was now impossible. He consoled himself with the knowledge that Verity was sure to take the opportunity of examining it
from above, not that it was at all likely there was anything significant to see. Both Lampfrey and Pride had searched the Virginia creeper and found nothing. It was more important to talk to
Williams. There were two or three questions he wanted to ask, preferably in the absence of Ruth Conway, but she seemed unwilling to let him out of her sight.

They tracked the gardener down to a greenhouse and Edward made a speech of thanks and pressed two half-crowns on him.

‘It’s only temporary, my lord, but it’ll get the lady home,’ the gardener warned him. ‘It must go to the garage to be done proper like.’

Edward had the feeling that Williams was disappointed Verity was not there to thank him in person. ‘Of course, I’m most grateful.’ He gently pulled a bunch of grapes towards
him and sniffed appreciatively. ‘These are magnificent, better than the vine at Mersham.’

‘Please, do take a bunch,’ Miss Conway said and Williams obligingly took out his pruning knife and cut two large bunches. Edward nibbled a grape and found it sweet.

‘What do you do with all this wonderful produce?’ he inquired. He had passed through an acre of vegetable garden and an orchard, the trees showing signs of having been carefully
tended.

‘We sell some in the village shop and give away the rest. There’s a hospital in Salisbury which likes to have fresh fruit and vegetables,’ Ruth Conway answered.

‘And do you not have any help, Williams? It must be a lot of work.’

Miss Conway answered for him. ‘It is. There’s a boy from the village who comes when we need him. Actually, I have decided to offer him full-time work as your assistant, Williams.
Would you like that?’

‘Very much, miss,’ the gardener said, looking quite cheerful. ‘Thank you, miss.’