Murder at Maddingley Grange (31 page)

“Well, I must say you pack quite a punch.” Then, as she continued to weep, “There, sweet…” He touched the silver glaze of warm tears with his lips and they stood for a moment still and close, locked in a daze of luminous reciprocity. And then he kissed her. It was wonderful. Cool and fresh and sweet, like burying your face in a newly opened rose. So he did it again.

Blissfully, Laurie, eyes closed, kissed him back. And then, as the comets wheeled in planetary splendor and meteors fell and clouds of stardust settled on their closed lids, it happened. Beneath her feet, the powerful shift and glide and click of the earth's great plates.

“Ohhh…” cried Laurie, releasing herself and stepping back, wide-eyed. “Then it's true. It does move. It
really
moves.”

“What's that, sweetheart?”

“The ground. Simon said it was all due to mass bombardment.”

“Ridiculous.”

Dazzled, uncomprehending, Martin smiled at Laurie; loving her skin, warm and freckled like a ripe apricot, her spice-brown hair and endearingly grubby little paws. More mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Fifty tomato plants awaited pinching out in vain. This state of supernatural bliss, transcending lust and almost even transcending love, was savagely shattered by the sound of a gunshot. Very loud. Crack! Shocked into wakefulness Laurie and Martin turned startled faces toward the garden wall.

The swans, alarmed, had risen from the moat and now appeared with a great whooshing of wings, passing over the greenhouse on their way to the lake. Then, as Laurie and Martin began to run, there was a second shot, followed immediately by a terrible harsh scream.

T
his is how the shooting came about. Simon had returned from the garage with the news that the minibus was out of commission, and was now fielding a salvo of anxious and furious questions.

“But what's the matter with it?”

“Why won't it start?”

“Have you run out of petrol?”

“You can't run out of petrol, Violet, standing in a garage.”

“I say—what a snorter!” Neigh whicker neigh, neigh. Neigh neigh.

“Perhaps it needs a push.”

“If anyone expects me to push, they're in for a grave disappointment.”

“I'm sure it's not poor Simon's fault, Mummy.”

“What on earth are we going to do now?”

“One cock-up after another, as the warden said on visiting day.”

“Rosemary—cover your ears!”

“It's to stop us getting away. We're trapped…
with a killer.”

“Now, Violet—don't take on.”

“If we could please discuss this quietly—”

“The grounds never lie.”

“Please…” repeated Simon. He spread his arms and moved his hands up and down like a conductor demanding a shade more
andante
. People quietened, but briefly.

“Point is, Simon,” said Gilly, “that if we leave things much longer, then it really is going to look peculiar as far as the bobbies are concerned. One of us is going to have to leg it to the nearest phone. I'd be happy to oblige.”

“No doubt you would,” said Fred. “But nobody's going to leg it anywhere until we get the truth about this intruder sorted out.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I'll tell you what difference. Simon says he was just an actor—”

“I didn't actually say that.” Simon hesitated. “And if I misled you I'm sorry. It was only because I felt that one or two people were genuinely frightened. The fact is, I didn't hire anyone.”

“In that case, and assuming Sheila's imagination carried her away, that only leaves us lot. So you can see,” Fred answered Gilly, “why nobody can bugger off. That person might well be the murderer.”

“Let two people go then.”

“And who do you think's going to be daft enough to go out there”—Fred waved at the distant trees—“with somebody who might wring his neck the minute they're away? If he's done one murder he won't hang about when it comes to another.”

“Why don't you and Violet go then?” asked Rosemary.

“Oh, I couldn't, duck. My feet aren't up to it.”

“Why not send the servants?”

‘The servants are useless,” explained Simon patiently. “One's lame, the other's half blind.”

“We seem,” said Mrs. Saville, “to have given up on the transport question rather easily. Perhaps the fault is not serious but one that a person with some knowledge of engines could rectify. Perhaps Mr. Gibbs…” Her voice, which had enjoyed a slightly wincing note throughout, as if being lightly brushed by an oily rag, tailed delicately off.

“No, I couldn't,” said Fred, well aware of why he had come out top in the possible car-mechanic stakes. “I'm about as likely to be able to start that heap of old junk as I am to start fanning me tea with me cap. I got a Testarossa. And two blokes to look after it.”

“They're so wearing, aren't they,” mused Mrs. Saville aside to Rosemary, “the nouveau riche?”

“I'm getting sick to death of you, missus. Looking down that great hooter at me and my family. We're as good as you any day of the week. And I'll tell you summat else—”

“Sssh.” Simon jumped to his feet. “Listen…”

Ears were strained. The cough of an engine could be clearly heard. The sound opened up and spread when the vehicle moved from the garage, traveled, got fainter and disappeared. This all happened so quickly that people had hardly registered what the noise was before it had faded completely.

“I say!” gasped Gilly. “He's legged it. The murderer's got away.”

“But…” Simon was astonished. “I don't understand…who could—”

“We're all here,” said Sheila. “That lets us out.”

“We're not, you know,” Fred contradicted her. “We're missing young Martin.”

“Martin?” Rosemary laughed unkindly. “He couldn't murder a poached egg.”

“Where is he, then? And come to that”—Fred winked lewdly across the room at Simon—“where's your sister?”

“I assume she's helping in the—” Simon broke off. His expression became deeply apprehensive. He hurried from the room and returned looking even more disturbed. A competent, well-organized man who has had his rug of carefully woven stratagem whipped from under his feet. His face showed a mixture of panic and disbelief. “They've gone.”

“Who?”

“The servants. All their clothes, everything.”

“Perhaps you could tell us,” said Mrs. Saville, “how they managed to start the bus when you failed.”

“You must have the number,” said Fred. “On the hire papers. The police will pick them up.”

“When?” cried Simon. “We have no phone. And it will take at least an hour to walk to Madingley.”

“They'll dump it if they've got any sense,” said Violet. “Soon as they get to Oxford.”

“So the mystery's solved.”

“What?” Simon looked blank.

“The butler did it after all,” continued Rosemary with a snide glance at Sheila. “Or the maid.”

“I never did trust that woman. Her tits were too close together.”

“Fred!”

“No need to get aerated, my duck,” said Fred. “You know me. I speak as I find. You couldn't have slid a cat's whisker between them. And did you see those feet? Big as herring boxes.”

“What are you getting at?” asked Simon.

“Elementary, squire. I reckon it were a man in drag.”

“In…”

“I say…dash it…” Gilly's round gooseberry eyes swiveled excitedly about.

“You got two professionals there, Simon. Pose as servants. Forged references. Clean up and move on. Better start counting your knick-knacks.”

“I can't believe it…” Simon looked around helplessly.

“Derek must've caught them at it so they rubbed him out.”

“At least the police'll be jolly pleased.” Rosemary smiled at Simon encouragingly. “Us doing all this detecting for them.”

“You haven't had much to do with the coppers, have you, Rosie?” asked Fred.

“Well, it's not our fault they got away.”

There was a long pause then. A strange hiatus. The flare of excitement having shriveled, a stale, flat atmosphere came to prevail. So it's all over? people seemed silently to say.

“Perhaps”—Mrs. Saville eventually turned to the elder Mrs. Gibbs—“as neither of us will be walking to Madingley we might continue our game?” She tried to keep her tone even, but failed. Voracity shone through.

Mrs. Gibbs returned a curious smile and said: “Let's have a leg up, then.” Violet looked at Fred, who shrugged; she helped her mother-in-law to her feet.

Mrs. Saville suggested that the cards be placed not in their hands but on the terrace table, “To confirm that the game will continue in a spirit of absolute integrity,” and this was done once both ladies were seated. Mrs. Gibbs seemed in no hurry to start playing and Mrs. Saville, after looking once at her cards to check that their miraculous consequentiality remained inviolate, held her horses as patiently as she was able. Her heart fluttered and she felt slightly dizzy but infinitely more alive than when she had been sitting in the house. Things were getting definitely sluggish back there now the mystery had been solved.

Although of course in a way the mystery out here was solved too. For the result of the forthcoming game was known, at least to Mrs. Saville. Yet she could still feel an agitated tremor of anticipation and was startled to see her hand shake. She looked across at her opponent, soon to be bested. How ugly Mrs. Gibbs was. She sat so still, gazing out over the parkland. Her profile with its hooked, witchy nose cleanly etched. Mrs. Saville wondered how old she really was. Hard to tell from that crackle-glazed skin the color of dark caramel toffee and ivory-yellow snaggletooth.

After five minutes or so Mrs. Saville leaned forward, but the overture was received with a fierce shake of the head. She sat back again, saying, “What is it?” Then, anguished, “You
are
going to play?”

“I'll play when it's all over.”

“When what's all over?” Mrs. Saville recognized the pose. The old woman had sat just so, head cocked, at lunchtime the second before Sheila Gregory had screamed. Was this to be another such coincidence?

A hoarse whisper came across. “The murder.”

“But…we've had the murder. It's solved…”

Mrs. Gibbs shook her greasy poll. “You're barking up the wrong banana.”

“You mean there's going to be
another
murder? Heavens!” She sprang up. “Rosemary!”

“Rose Marie?” Mrs. Gibbs cackled. “A long life. Too long.”

“Then who?” Relieved, Mrs. Saville had sunk down again. “If you know you must do something. Go back in there and tell them.”

“Me?” Mrs. Gibbs winked slyly. “I can't go anywhere. I got a bone in me leg.”

In the library, Simon, having announced that as this mess was all his fault, it was only fair that he should be the one to walk to the village, hesitated at the door.

Solemn and encouraging faces urged him to his task. Only Sheila did not look up. She sat head bent, gripping her knees, knuckles shining white. Her body, a hoop of tension, was poised on the edge of her seat like a sprinter on the mark.

Simon opened the door and, at the sound, Sheila sprang to her feet, crying: “Yes—yes—go! You were right—this farce has gone on long enough…Oh,
poor
Derek…” and burst into hysterical sobs.

Everyone perked up at the onset of fresh histrionics, consoling and soothing. All but Rosemary, who rolled back her eyes with irritation while she considered leaving the lot of them to it and hurrying to catch Simon up. She had appreciated the delicacy of his position earlier when he had announced that he must travel alone. It would have looked very peculiar if he had rejected Gilly's offer of company and then agreed to let someone else tag along. But Rosemary, emboldened by the sweet nothings exchanged behind the
Lonicera americana
, was sure Simon would be only too delighted were she to slip away and catch him up.

No sooner thought than done. She tiptoed toward the hall. But hardly had she got there when she heard someone cry out. A violent shout. Either: “No!” or “Don't!” Then running footsteps. Slightly alarmed, Rosemary hesitated, then found herself propelled forward by Violet and Fred, the latter crying, “What's that row?”

Simon raced into view. A voice in pursuit called: “Stop or I fire!” Simon did not stop. There was a shot. A large vase, high on a marble pedestal, exploded. Yellow and turquoise fragments flew through the air. Rosemary screamed. The front door stood open. Simon zipped through. And in fierce pursuit, eyes wild, hair flying, and brandishing Gilly's revolver, ran Derek Gregory.

A second shot followed by a squawk. Rosemary turned to Fred in horror. “He's killed him! Oh Simon…”