Killing a Unicorn (9 page)
Authors: Marjorie Eccles
âOh yes, do go and bring her back here!' implored Alyssa. âShe'll surely come when she knows what's happened!' The thought of Fran was like the strong shot of brandy Alyssa would have preferred in the circumstances, even at this time in the morning, to the tea Jilly had made for her, welcome though that had been. The person Alyssa really wanted, however, was Humphrey. He'd said he wouldn't be back until eleven at the earliest, he didn't like to push the old girl â meaning his ancient and beloved bull-nosed Morris Minor, into which he folded his long stork's legs like an Anglepoise lamp, and drove sitting bolt upright with his Sherlock Holmes hat on. Alyssa always felt she ought to be wearing a motoring veil whenever she sat next to him. âTell Fran I desperately want to see her, Jonathan â and when she speaks to Mark, ask her to tell him to come home immediately. I'm sure whatever it is he's doing in Antwerp can wait. At times like this, it's the family that counts.'
âBrussels,' corrected Jonathan. âOK, I'll ask her, but he won't just be able to drop everything, you know.' He reached for the door handle. âComing, Jilly?' he asked, as an afterthought.
âBetter not. I should start doing something about that suitcase.'
With luck, it might have turned up by now. It might, on the other hand, still be languishing in Schipol airport, a notorious place for luggage going astray; where they'd had to change flights, due to a missed connection. The time taken to try and trace the case could conceivably extend to fill the day, but she was glad to have something to occupy
her that would help to span this terrible hiatus. She wouldn't be missed, anyway, she thought wryly. They all wanted Fran, and that was of course understandable, Fran being part of the family.
her that would help to span this terrible hiatus. She wouldn't be missed, anyway, she thought wryly. They all wanted Fran, and that was of course understandable, Fran being part of the family.
When Jonathan had rung her from The Watersplash last night and told her he'd be staying there, Jilly had reasonably agreed that it was the best thing. It wouldn't have made any difference if she hadn't, she supposed, though to argue wouldn't have occurred to her, or to get herself in a twist about Fran. Not in the same way she'd once got worked up about Bibi. Fran was too wrapped up in Mark to look in other directions. In any case, Jilly shared Jonathan's liking for her ⦠she was the only one around here who treated her with genuine, unselfconscious friendliness. She was warm and funny and really nice â if a bit sharp on occasions â and yet with such sad eyes sometimes.
It wasn't, Jilly admitted with a sigh, as if she herself wasn't welcome at Membery. Everyone was invariably polite and agreeable, but it would be nice if someone occasionally gave a second thought to throwing a little affection in her direction, too. Jilly often had the weird feeling that she was invisible to them all here, an appendage of Jonathan's, of rather less importance than his cello. Alyssa, for instance, was never less than amiable, even if she sometimes looked surprised to find Jilly there, throwing those absent, brilliant smiles in her direction whenever she remembered, meaning to be kind, Jilly supposed.
It was disconcerting to see how like Jonathan's those smiles were.
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Jilly took herself off to answer it and came back to say the police were here, and wanted to speak with Chip.
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Three people were waiting for him, a woman and two men, the younger of whom was staring round the lofty spaces of the big hall as though he'd never seen anything
like it in his life before, as no doubt he hadn't. It was a not unusual reaction from first-time visitors.
like it in his life before, as no doubt he hadn't. It was a not unusual reaction from first-time visitors.
Chip's gaze, too, skimmed round the old familiar place, at a glance taking in what the young man was looking at, seeing it all at once through his eyes, right down to the sunlight coming through the long window in dusty motes and showing up all the grubby corners that would have been better kept hidden. However strong the will to keep it spotless, the house defeated most efforts. It had been built on the assumption that the days of hordes of available and affordable servants would go on for ever, and Rene Brooker, even when supervised by Jane Arrow, and with occasional help from one or two women in the village, didn't have a hope. It was very obvious for instance, with the sun streaming through it, that the inside of the big window hadn't seen the attentions of a shammy leather in recent, or even distant, times, but who was there to mount a ladder and do it? As for the outside of the window, which needed a double ladder and a man with the agility of a monkey to get to it, it hadn't been washed in living memory. Any cleaning that was needed out there was left to the rain.
Membery soaked up money like a thirsty drunk. A bit of new guttering here and there, a few roof-tiles replaced and chimneys pointed, it seemed like nothing â but all too often there were nasty surprises in the way of bigger, necessary repairs. Added up, on an old building of architectural interest like this, it came to a great deal. The demands were endless. Chip had so far been quite prepared to fork out when necessary, without bothering either of his brothers, because there wasn't much doubt that ultimately Membery would be his, whatever the terms of his father's will â but that was only as long as there was money there to spend, which might not be for much longer.
He felt the same deep, inward plunge of despair he'd felt last night, coming home in the car. He'd never questioned his feelings for Membery, he'd simply regarded it
with the fierce sense of possession of those who are born with tradition in their veins but not much imagination, and when the opportunities to make money to revamp the house and keep it going had been put before him, he'd seen it as an easy way out of his obligations. But now it was as though, his other hopes having died with Bibi, for the first time he saw his speculations for what they were. How had he ever imagined he had the nerve to be a successful gambler? He was an amateur at the game. The risks he was taking had appeared enormous to him, but, let's face it, they were too small to make the gamble worthwhile. It was no good simply dipping a toe in the water, it had to be a plunge from the high-diving board. He saw himself facing ruin. He might even â good God! â be forced to sell the new Lexus! Bibi had been right. The house was an albatross around his neck.
with the fierce sense of possession of those who are born with tradition in their veins but not much imagination, and when the opportunities to make money to revamp the house and keep it going had been put before him, he'd seen it as an easy way out of his obligations. But now it was as though, his other hopes having died with Bibi, for the first time he saw his speculations for what they were. How had he ever imagined he had the nerve to be a successful gambler? He was an amateur at the game. The risks he was taking had appeared enormous to him, but, let's face it, they were too small to make the gamble worthwhile. It was no good simply dipping a toe in the water, it had to be a plunge from the high-diving board. He saw himself facing ruin. He might even â good God! â be forced to sell the new Lexus! Bibi had been right. The house was an albatross around his neck.
All this flashed through his mind with lightning speed, as a drowning man sees his past life, in less time than it took to walk forward and greet the police. He came back to the present to hear Inspector Crouch introducing himself and Sergeant Colville, expressing polite sorrow about Bibi. He hesitated. âAnd of course there's the little boy, too. We had word over the radio that he can't be found for the moment, and it seems sensible to run the two enquiries together until he turns up. What we need just now are a few more details, what he looks like, what he might be wearing and so on, before we begin the search proper. DC Hanson here will find that out from the others, while you give me a few minutes of your time, Mr Calvert, if you please.'
âLeave it with me, sir. Soon have it sorted.' Chip glanced at the blond, smooth-cheeked DC who was answering the inspector with a super-confident smile, and hoped he wasn't over-estimating himself. He looked more like a school-leaver on work experience than a competent police officer.
âThis way,' he said. He took them all through what had once been the green baize door, the demarcation line,
beyond which had lain the servants' quarters, now his own set of rooms. Once through, he decanted DC Hanson off into the kitchen to get on with questioning the rest of the family. After which he led the woman sergeant and the big, hirsute inspector with the blue chin further, into a room which still bore a decorative plaque on its door, matching the ornate door furniture: âMrs Heatherfield, Housekeeper', it still said, in Gothic letters, gold on black.
beyond which had lain the servants' quarters, now his own set of rooms. Once through, he decanted DC Hanson off into the kitchen to get on with questioning the rest of the family. After which he led the woman sergeant and the big, hirsute inspector with the blue chin further, into a room which still bore a decorative plaque on its door, matching the ornate door furniture: âMrs Heatherfield, Housekeeper', it still said, in Gothic letters, gold on black.
If the kitchen had been modernized, thought Kate, who had glimpsed easy-clean working surfaces and pale painted units through the door, nothing appeared to have been done to this room since it had been appropriated for use as a study, save to install a few shelves for files and a big, modern desk to hold computer equipment. A hooded stonework chimneypiece with blue and green de Morgan tiles decorating the fire surround dominated the room, skirting boards were eighteen inches deep and there was a heavy cornice and frieze above the âgreenery-yallery, Grosvenor gallery' William Morris wallpaper. A big bay window with its leaded lights wide open saved the room from dreariness, however, and its outlook over a part of the garden Kate recognized as being open to the public showed perhaps why Chip Calvert had chosen it as his study. Only a few weeks ago, she'd paid her two pounds fifty for entrance and walked along that flagged path between the yew hedges, breathing in the delicious fragrance of the old roses beyond. Since moving here from London, she'd visited Membery Place Gardens along with other notable local spots, as part of a self-imposed duty, getting to know her area. Kate was like that, she would have done it anyway, but in this case pleasure had outweighed duty.
âPlease sit down,' Chip said absently, indicating two sagging armchairs, before taking his own seat at the chair in front of the desk, swivelling it round to face them. The cruel light from the uncurtained window, the sun climbing high in the sky, fell directly on to his face, telling all too clearly the story of a man who hadn't slept well. All the
same, thought Kate. Wouldn't mind going into the long grass with him, as a game old aunt of hers had been wont to say. A real Alpha male, and no mistake, obviously the owner of the big silver status-symbol car parked outside. Tall and athletic, craggy profile, attractive smile, roguish brown eyes, the lot. He even had a romantic scar down one side of his face, reminiscent of a duelling scar. She took a firm hold on herself. Chip Calvert, apart from all of this and despite the smile, which she began to sense was automatic, she could see was a deeply disturbed and worried man, and with every good reason, she thought, her sympathy chiming with her returning common sense. She was very much afraid he was going to be even more upset when he heard what she had to say.
same, thought Kate. Wouldn't mind going into the long grass with him, as a game old aunt of hers had been wont to say. A real Alpha male, and no mistake, obviously the owner of the big silver status-symbol car parked outside. Tall and athletic, craggy profile, attractive smile, roguish brown eyes, the lot. He even had a romantic scar down one side of his face, reminiscent of a duelling scar. She took a firm hold on herself. Chip Calvert, apart from all of this and despite the smile, which she began to sense was automatic, she could see was a deeply disturbed and worried man, and with every good reason, she thought, her sympathy chiming with her returning common sense. She was very much afraid he was going to be even more upset when he heard what she had to say.
The fact of Bibi Morgan's murder had been made all the worse by this latest happening, the child going missing just at this crucial time. Contrary to how untypically soothing his initial remarks had sounded, she knew that Crouch was worried by it. He'd immediately dismissed the idea that the boy's disappearance was nothing to do with his mother's murder, that he'd wandered off on some childish prank. The child hadn't slept in his bed, they'd been told, although his mother had reportedly said she'd put him to bed before slipping outside, so clearly fears for his safety couldn't be lightly discounted. They'd both seen too many cases of missing children not to be concerned about the possible outcome; there was every possibility that they might find the same terrible thing had happened to him as to his mother.
At the front door, while they had been waiting to be admitted, Kate had suddenly taken the initiative. âLeave this to me, Dave, OK? Telling him, I mean.'
He'd considered her. âAll right,' he'd agreed, after a moment, acknowledging there were some things she was better equipped to deal with than he was. Dave Crouch was the first to admit he didn't have a bedside manner, or anything approaching one. If anyone had anything unpleasant to say to him, he preferred them to give it him
straight, wham, no pussyfooting around, but over the years he'd been reluctantly forced to admit that not everyone felt the same about the way bad news was imparted. And on top of that, this was a case that was turning out to be one of Crouch's worst nightmares, touching on his one soft spot. Case-hardened and prejudiced as he was in more ways than he was ever likely to admit, and however tough the carapace he'd grown around any sensitivities he might have had, here was the one thing likely to penetrate it. His fuse was notoriously short in any event, but anything involving harm to children, and he was liable to explode without warning. In his opinion, such perverts were lower than a snake's belly. These sort of investigations rarely, however, came his way, he couldn't think why. It was just as well, though â he knew, and thought no one else knew, that he couldn't have held himself responsible for the consequences if he'd had the chance to lay his hands on the perpetrator of such crimes. Deep down inside him, never openly stated because it was definitely not a politically correct point of view, was the belief that vigilante groups had a lot going for them. He kept these opinions to himself, however, especially from Kate, who knew that his first wife had left him, taking their child with her; that every time there was a case involving a child, it brought back the pain and loss of his own child. She met his eye now and he gave her the nod to start.
straight, wham, no pussyfooting around, but over the years he'd been reluctantly forced to admit that not everyone felt the same about the way bad news was imparted. And on top of that, this was a case that was turning out to be one of Crouch's worst nightmares, touching on his one soft spot. Case-hardened and prejudiced as he was in more ways than he was ever likely to admit, and however tough the carapace he'd grown around any sensitivities he might have had, here was the one thing likely to penetrate it. His fuse was notoriously short in any event, but anything involving harm to children, and he was liable to explode without warning. In his opinion, such perverts were lower than a snake's belly. These sort of investigations rarely, however, came his way, he couldn't think why. It was just as well, though â he knew, and thought no one else knew, that he couldn't have held himself responsible for the consequences if he'd had the chance to lay his hands on the perpetrator of such crimes. Deep down inside him, never openly stated because it was definitely not a politically correct point of view, was the belief that vigilante groups had a lot going for them. He kept these opinions to himself, however, especially from Kate, who knew that his first wife had left him, taking their child with her; that every time there was a case involving a child, it brought back the pain and loss of his own child. She met his eye now and he gave her the nod to start.
It would be easy to try and reassure with platitudes, that children don't think, they lose track of time, he's sure to turn up, and so on, but Kate wasn't going to say that unless she had to. Privately she agreed with Crouch that such a contingency was unlikely in the extreme. She merely said that they had initiated a thorough search in the grounds. There'd be time later to voice the other fears that must be in everyone's mind â snatching by some sexual deviant, or taken as a hostage by some nutter who wanted a favour in exchange. Or even kidnapping for ransom money ⦠Membery was the local Big House, the Calverts were known to be not exactly on the breadline, though rich
was relative: certainly, whatever family money there still was didn't appear to be spent on the house, its past splendours were by now definitely shabby. But you might view things differently if you were desperate for what they might still regard as petty cash â if you were homeless and hungry, on the dole or, even more likely, with an expensive habit that needed feeding.
was relative: certainly, whatever family money there still was didn't appear to be spent on the house, its past splendours were by now definitely shabby. But you might view things differently if you were desperate for what they might still regard as petty cash â if you were homeless and hungry, on the dole or, even more likely, with an expensive habit that needed feeding.
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