Murder Among Us (23 page)

Margery hurried into the flat and stopped with a gasp of dismay.

Everything lay strewn about in unimaginable confusion. Drawers had been tipped out on the floor and their contents scattered far and wide. The desk had been forced open, the wood around the lock splintered, the pigeonholes gaping empty. Books had been tumbled from their case, the records taken from their sleeves. The chair seats had been wrenched out and the carpet rolled back.

She ran into the bedroom. The same confusion. The mattress taken from the bed and left propped against a wall. All the clothes, both workaday and the beautiful new designer labels, had been pulled from the wardrobe and tossed down like so many worthless rags, defiled. Margery gazed at them in horror knowing she would never be able to wear them now.

In the kitchen spilled lentils and beans crunched under her feet. A strong aroma of coffee filled the air from the sink into which had been tipped the contents of a Nescafe jar in a pyramid of brown powder. The empty glass jar rolled away across the floor as her foot struck against it.

Had the police done this awful thing? No.

Margery's hand automatically touched her shoulder bag. He'd done it. He'd been here. He wanted this, Ellen's secret, which lay in Margery's bag, burning a hole in it, shrieking out its presence and the danger having it meant to her. She was in no doubt.

He had searched, in increasing desperation. He had failed to find it and if he thought about it, he would realise where it was, who had it, and where he had to go for it. Even now he could be lurking in a doorway opposite the shop, having waited for her to return. He could be crossing the road, climbing the stair, creeping up behind her, his hands outstretched ...

She gave a little shriek and ran back to the living room and the telephone. With trembling fingers and her frightened eyes fixed on the door to the flat, she dialled 999. Terror was in her heart and the sure certainty that he would find her.

She stuttered, "P-police, p-please . . . ! Oh, do come quickly!"

After all, he had already killed Ellen for her secret, hadn't he?

Seventeen

"Eric's got it bad," said Markby into the phone. "You were right."

"You needn't sound so surprised," came Meredith's voice tinnily. "I did warn you."

"Surprised? I'm shell-shocked. To tell you the truth, it was embarrassing. Oh yes, very funny. You may laugh but you haven't spent the last hour listening to Eric's semi-erotic ramblings. It's in no way a joke! He is very serious about it and he's not a green youngster. He's forty-four. What's he going to do if she turns him down? He'll probably go into terminal decline."

"Now who's exaggerating? You can't do anything about it, Alan. It's up to Eric to plead his suit."

"He will. He's invited her to lunch. Lured her in with a ploy about discussing the fate of the old nags' home. If she rejects him, he'll be devastated and if she accepts him, young Harding will have to bite the bullet. Both possibilities make me extremely uneasy."

"Eric didn't like Robin. A rival, I suppose. I know Zoe's going to lunch with Eric. I met her in town and she told me. Poor kid, she wants to make a good impression and she hasn't a penny to spend on herself. She buys her clothes in charity shops."

"Don't worry, if she accepts Eric he'll load her down with Paris fashions."

"She wouldn't want that. That's the trouble, I suppose. I really believe the animals will always mean more to her than any mere human relationship. Clothes are a bit of a nuisance in her view. If you can't muck out horses wearing it, a garment is useless. And you can't

really shovel manure wearing Saint-Laurent, can you?"

"She's not a kid exactly, she's twenty-four and self-supporting. Perhaps she just hasn't had the chance to spend money on herself? Given the serious opportunity, she might surprise us all!" returned Markby, sounding hardbitten and then destroying it by demanding helplessly, "But what on earth was I supposed to say to Eric?"

He sighed when Meredith failed to respond. "It was such a change to hear him talking about something other than the hotel business and the damage done to his investment by the murder! He's dismissed all that to second place now. Eric's a person who gives one hundred and ten per cent effort to whatever is claiming his attention. He must have been a terrifying ice-hockey player. Utterly ruthless! Then it was hotels; now it's love. But he still works by the tactics of the ice-rink. He is a tactician, Eric, but a bruiser, too. No wonder I'm worried and not least because I know I encouraged him. You see the one thing Eric doesn't know how to do is how to accept defeat."

There was still silence from the other end of the telephone line. "Are you still there?" Markby asked. "How was Oxford, find any books?"

"None that I could afford and none exactly what I wanted but it was fun looking. Did you see the Fultons while you were lunching with Eric?"

"No, now you mention it. Perhaps they've gone home."

"I doubt it, not without saying goodbye. Anyway, they're supposed to be staying to support Eric in his hour of need, besides make up their recent rift, I mean the rift between Denis and Leah."

"From all you've told me, Denis is the last person to offer advice to Eric in his present state. I just hope Eric's got all the knives locked away!"

"Now that really isn't funny!" said Meredith.

Nor was it, Markby agreed silently as he hung up. But it wasn't helpful, nor did he have the time to brood over Eric's problem-strewn lovelife. He dismissed it firmly from his mind. He had problems of his own and the last thing he needed was anything further distracting him from tracking down Ellen's killer. He set out briskly on foot for Bamford police station, mulling over the murder as he went.

The way things stood almost anyone who was at Springwood Hall on the day of the gala opening could have done it. To drive in a knife is the action of a few seconds. The letter found in Ellen's flat indicated careful pre-planning, a victim lured by pre-arrangement to her death. The murderer knew exactly where to go to find Ellen and at what time of day. Hence the necessary time for the murder was pared down to the smallest possible turn-round. Into the cellars, plunge in the knife, out again. Neat.

In the general milling about both among the uninvited sightseers and the invited guests as they circulated on the lawn, continually changing position and conversation partners, occasionally getting mixed up with the crowd or popping into the house for a variety of reasons, no one could be ruled out. A few minutes' absence wouldn't have been noticed or, if it had, been thought significant.

The only person he could rule out, thought Markby with a wry grin, was Hope Mapple, since she had had nowhere to hide a knife. But that pre-supposed the murderer carried the knife to the rendez-vous in the cellar. Suppose the knife had been abstracted from the busy kitchens earlier and hidden in the cellars? All the invited guests had been on the tour of the hotel which included both kitchens and cellars. The chef, Richter, and kitchen staff had all been in the kitchens and in sight of one another at the time the murder had taken place. Yes, the knife had been taken earlier.

But if this line of reasoning pointed towards one of the celebrities, then the concentration of attention on

those same celebrities meant that hardly anyone was taking notice of what any one person in the rest of the crowd was doing. And as soon as Hope started running, of course, all eyes were on her.

"Exactly!" muttered Markby as he pushed open the station doors. "So did the murderer know that Hope intended to streak, and approximately at what time, and make corresponding arrangements?"

Or, on the other hand, what about the victim, Ellen? She had certainly known of Hope's plan. Had she sent a message to her killer-to-be, indicating the moment when all eyes would be turned to the streaker so that she and her murderer could meet undisturbed?

It was with this uncomfortable mind-picture, of Ellen writing to indicate the cellars as a meeting place and thereby setting her signature to her own death warrant, that he stepped into the reception area.

There was no one at the desk. But voices could be heard from the office area to the rear of it. Above them all came that of Wpc Jones.

"Come on, don't be stingy. We want to get him something decent!"

Markby's heart sank. The murder and Emma's disappearance had combined to thrust from his mind the problem of his impending promotion and the desk-bound glory which awaited him. As he had feared, somehow the word had got out.

A face appeared briefly round a corner and vanished again. A scurry and much whispering. Jones, red-faced, reappeared.

"Good afternoon, sir. We've been trying to contact you."

"Oh yes?" said Markby sourly.

From somewhere unseen behind Jones came a crash and the sound of coins rolling across the floor. Someone swore. Another person hissed "Shut up!" Scrabbling fingers and scraping chairs conjured up a picture of frantic crawling around to retrieve the money.

Wpc Jones looked bland but something in her eye

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defied him to ask any questions or make any comment on the noises.

"Sergeant Pearce was called out and left a note." Jones reached out a piece of paper. "Miss Collins phoned 999 and the sergeant thought he'd better go straight away."

Markby snatched the note, scanned it briefly, swore and ordered, "Get me a car and driver! My car's at home, dammit! Go on, snappy!"

"Yes, sir!" said Jones, giving him a look which indicated if he went on like this, his leaving present was likely to be very modest indeed.

Markby ran up the stairs to the flat above the shop two at a time and burst in. As the door flew open, he spied Margery Collins sitting on a chair shakily sipping tea and Pearce, notebook in hand, attempting to take a statement.

At his sudden appearance Margery squeaked shrilly and spilled tea and Pearce spun round. Then he put his notebook away and said with relief, "There you are, sir! I tried to raise you on your car radio."

"I was on the phone at home." Markby's gaze raked the disordered room.

"I tried there afterwards."

"Then I'd just left—for crying out loud!" Markby threw out a hand to indicate the disarray all around them. "What the dickens has been going on here?"

"Miss Collins came and found it like this, sir. She's, ah, very upset as you can see." Pearce rolled his eyes towards Margery.

"I'm scared!" whispered Margery, fixing them both with her saucer-like eyes.

"Yes, yes, very unpleasant but you're all right now!" said Markby rather brusquely.

"He's been everywhere, in the kitchen, in the bedroom—he took out all of Ellen's lovely new clothes and just threw them down on the bed! He's broken the lock

of her desk. That's a valuable desk, she told me. It's an antique!"

44 Ah yes, well, you might be able to claim on the insurance. Get Mrs. Danby on to that. They may or not pay up now Ellen's dead. Don't see why they shouldn't." Markby drew Pearce to one side. "Any idea who? And how did they get in?"

"I can answer the second bit," said Pearce. "There's a window forced downstairs at the back. It leads into a storeroom and from there into the back passage leading to the shop."

4 'Get it fingerprinted. Any hope of footprints?"

"Yessir, fingerprint chap is on his way. No footprints, outside area under the window is all concrete."

4 'Anyone see suspicious characters hanging about?"

"Haven't had a chance to ask around yet, but sir—" Pearce glanced meaningly at Margery again. 4 'Something's odd. She keeps saying 4 he' as if she knew who it was and when I got here she was in a real old state. She'd barricaded herself in and it was five minutes before she'd open the door to me! She's terrified, not just scared. I think she does know, or thinks she knows, who did this. The trouble is, what with being frightened and shocked and I don't know what else, she doesn't make a whole lot of sense. I think we'll have to get a statement later. One minute she's rabbiting about the clothes from the wardrobe and the next about Ellen trusting her and keeping faith—and then she says she's in danger."

Markby stared thoughtfully at Margery who was blowing her nose.

"Okay, I'll have a word. Chase up the fingerprint chap and then go and have a word with the shops either side. Whoever did this might have made quite a bit of noise moving the furniture and so on."

He walked over to Margery, pulled out a chair and sat down. "Well, now, Miss Collins," he said cheerily, hoping she'd relax. 4 'Feeling a bit better?"

Unfortunately he'd asked the wrong question.

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"No!" said Margery fiercely. She set down the cup and stuffed the bunch of tissues in her fist into her bag. "It's awful!"

"It sometimes happens after a serious crime or an advertised death. Some joker reads about it in the local paper and thinks he'll break in while the place is unoccupied and see what he can find."

He was watching her closely as he spoke and saw that, if anything, her manifest terror had increased. She was slowly shaking her head, contradicting his words. She knows a lot more than she's told us so far! he thought with some satisfaction. Now it'd led to this she didn't know what to do, whether to speak up and ask for their help or run the risk of staying silent.

Encouragingly he asked, "Have you had a chance to check yet and see if anything is missing?"

She reddened, swallowed and muttered, "Don't need to."

"What's that?"

"Don't—don't have to check. I know, I know what he wanted."

"And who is he, Miss Collins?"

She was scrabbling in her handbag, he supposed for a fresh supply of tissues. Suddenly she stopped and looked up, more mouse-like than ever, her pointed nose trembling. "It was because Ellen trusted me, Mr. Markby!"

"That she left you the business? Yes, I dare say it was."

"No—yes! Not just the business!" Margery glanced about them in a hunted way. "I keep feeling as if she were here and could hear us, see us. I know she trusted me. She thought I wouldn't tell."