Murder At Wittenham Park (2 page)

Gregory D. Gregorian, a man of whom even Wall Street Masters of the Universe lived in terror at the time, would never have approved of his only daughter's marrying Gilroy before he spent a weekend at Wittenham. Previously Buck had been the sort of dubious young débutante's delight on whom ten cents spent was ten cents wasted. In those days he was only Lieutenant The Honorable Algernon Gilroy, and although Dee Dee adored him, Gregorian was sceptical. But then Buck's father had invited him and his wife, Estelle, up for what the old boy still called “a Friday to Monday”; and Gregory Dwight Gregorian was hooked. The mock battlements might be crumbling, the William Morris tapestries that had come with the house might have long been consigned to Sotheby's auction rooms, the butler might look like an aging waxwork whose facial structure had begun to droop, but none of this mattered. Wittenham was the real McCoy, with portraits and deer in the park and signed black-and-white photos of royalty in silver frames. Gregorian had been hooked. So had his wife. The butler even overheard Estelle, wandering in one of the stone-flagged “cloister” passages, mouthing the words “Lady Gilroy”; “Deirdre, the Lady Gilroy”; “Lady Gilroy of Wittenham,” as if practising some witches' chant.

And then Greg discovered that the father had served on the Allied staff of General Eisenhower. Gregorian himself had been named Dwight on account of the liberation of Europe. That finalized the deal. Dee and Dee and Buck were married that summer at the Guard's Chapel, in the Wellington Barracks, right by Saint James's Park, and the names of the wedding guests took up four inches in
The Times.

Even so, Dee Dee's marriage settlement had not been breathtaking. “Don't worry, boy,” Gregorian had assured Buck repeatedly, “every cent that is mine will be hers one day. Whoever gets Dee Dee is some lucky guy.”

If Buck really had been a used-car salesman, he would have wondered about the “whoever gets” bit and recognized the patter. But he was now a newly promoted captain and feeling too good about life to worry. Besides, Greg was unfailingly generous in everyday matters and Dee Dee had a substantial allowance. Then, in what seemed the twinkling of an eye, but was actually a series of events spread over two years, old Gilroy died, Buck was obliged to quit the Coldstream Guards to run the estate, and a new trans-Atlantic phrase impinged itself on his limited financial vocabulary. The phrase was “Filing for Protection under Chapter Eleven.” Gregory D. Gregorian's company was going bust.

In practice, going into Chapter Eleven was not the disaster Gregorian pretended. He had to sell his yacht, but only the 120-foot
Estelle.
Another remained snugly moored up in Long Island, where the five-bedroom clapboard house on Beach Road in Southampton remained in the hands of a trust. The Sutton Place duplex went, but it was replaced with a comfortable apartment on Sixty-seventh Street, near the Frick. And Dee Dee's allowance went too. As she remarked to her husband, in a moment of disloyalty to Daddy, “Your motto may be ‘Always Faithful,' ours is ‘Me First!'”

Gilroy's accountants soon pointed out that, given the tax bill which he would have to settle, thanks to his father's early death, Wittenham Park would either have to be made profitable or be sold. Dee Dee set her teeth against selling; and Buck further enlarged his financial vocabulary with phrases like “bottom line,” “deficit carried forward,” and “profit centres.” It was locating the last of these three that kept him permanently scheming.

Three years ago they had opened a Lion Park. Last year Dee Dee had converted the stables into a Period Gallery, displaying everything from Victorian dresses to an old fire engine. A shop sold Wittenham Park honey and curios, all labelled with Gilroy's crest of a stag rearing up, apparently trying to escape from a coronet in which its hooves were caught. No one could deny the energy with which Dee Dee threw herself into these enterprises. Why worry that the Marquess of Bath had long been famous for his lions and that the Duchess of Devonshire sold coronet-labelled honey? The moment the Gilroys read about someone else's smart idea, they copied it. Inevitably, they had the idea of a golf course.

Gilroy was thrilled. He could visualize a hundred spin-offs, such as selling golf balls adorned with a coronet and a limited-edition membership. Then he discovered that, although they had a suitable five hundred acres of land, the capital outlay would still be vast. This was how they had met the developer, George Welch.

Precisely how Welch came to hear that there was land on offer at Wittenham Park the Gilroys did not know, though it had coincided with their originating the murder-weekend project. At all events Welch had telephoned back in January and insisted on coming to see them. The moment his Rolls-Royce scrunched on the gravel and halted in the drive, they knew what he would be like. The Rolls was painted in an iridescent apple-green, with white sidewall tyres. In the old days Rolls would have refused to paint a car that colour, and if they'd found one that had been so painted, they would have done their damnedest to buy it back.

Sure enough, Welch had been a burly fifty-year-old, dressed in a Mafia-style blue suit, with wide lapels, and a multi-coloured kipper tie that appeared to have been attacked by a graffiti artist. He referred to his car as a “Roller.”

“Oh God,” Dee Dee had whispered as the butler announced him, “what have we let ourselves in for?”

Welch didn't waste any time letting them know.

“Hear you've got a bit of land up for grabs,” he said, as soon they had sat down in the drawing-room, “now that could be interesting to a man like me.”

“We're thinking of a golf-course development.” Gilroy had said, only to be shot down at once.

“Golf course?” Welch had said dismissively, “what d'you want one of those for? Leave that to the Japs. The whole bloody country's going to be golf courses soon.” His tone became more aggressive. “Nice little estate you could 'ave 'ere. Very nice little development. Five hundred acres, you said. Do a lot with five hundred.”

“You mean houses?”

“Houses?” Utter scorn had entered Welch's roughly accented voice. “No way do I mean ‘houses.' Homes is what people want, old cock. Homes, not bloody houses. Right then, five hundred acres. Say four to an acre. Knock off ten percent for roads and such. Eighteen hundred homes, you could 'ave. And you've the perfect place for 'em.” Welch had got up and gone to the high windows that looked down towards the lake. “Took a gander at your little property on the way, I did. Got the perfect site down there, you 'ave. Right by the water, good access so long as you widen that drive of yours. How much d'you want, eh?”

Both the Gilroys had gazed at him in total horror. The man was proposing a vast residential estate in full view of the house.

“I don't think you've quite understood.” Gilroy had said, almost stuttering with indignation, “the five hundred acres is at the other end of the park, by the old farm buildings. Would you like to see the site?”

“Don't waste my time, old cock. Down there's what I want. Have to get rid of those lions, though. Nasty, dangerous animals. Frighten the kids.” He had returned and seated himself at a table, pulling a cheque-book and a flashy gold pen out of his inside pocket. “What's your price? A million? All right, then, if you're a bit short, say two.” He had flourished the cheque-book. “What's a million between friends.”

“Listen,” Gilroy managed to say, “that is not the land involved; and anyway, we don't want houses.”

“Homes!” Welch corrected him with an incisiveness that reminded Gilroy painfully of the Regimental Sergeant Major on parade, “not bloody houses. Two and half, then. And that's my final offer.”

“Mr. Welch,” Dee Dee had interrupted in her most glacial voice, “I don't think you have quite understood. None of our land is for sale, least of all by the lake. We are looking for a co-developer for a golf course.”

“All right, then,” Welch had replied in a resigned voice, “three million it is.” He laid the cheque-book on the table and unscrewed the top of the gold pen.

“It absolutely is not all right,” Dee Dee had said. “Our land is not for sale.”

“Thought he needed the lolly,” Welch had said, almost conversationally, then jerked his head towards Gilroy. “What does he do for a living then? Can't spend his whole time grinding the faces of the poor, not these days.”

“We have our own business,” Gilroy interjected.

“Ah. Thought you might. Wouldn't like to buy my Roller, would yer? Only thirty-one thousand miles, and not been clocked either. Only a fool clocks a Roller. I've seen a new model I rather fancy.”

“He is not a car dealer,” Dee Dee had cut in.

“No offence meant, lady.” Welch swung round. “Okay then. You've twisted my arm. Three and a half million.” He had squared up to Gilroy with all the amiability of a retired prize-fighter who had just decided to return to the ring. “Three and a half; and that's my last word.”

“No!” Dee Dee had burst out, exasperated at last. “No, no, no. If you can't understand, you'd better go.”

Welch had eventually left, with a very bad grace and a final remark that they had not forgiven him for.

“Homes are what the people of this country want! And the sooner sods like you start getting them what they want, the better.” He had marched off down the wide stone steps, slammed into his apple-green Roller and accelerated away, scattering gravel onto the surrounding lawns.

And now he was on the guest list for the weekend!

“You must speak to that promoter man at once,” Dee Dee ordered. “What was his name?”

“Wilkinson.”

“Well, ask him what the hell is going on.”

Gilroy departed to his office, holding the faxed guest list as if it were in flames and burning his hand. He returned fifteen minutes later and dropped heavily into the sofa.

“Nothing we can do about it,” he announced. “Bloody man's paid in full and threatens to sue if we cancel. Wilkinson got him on the blower. What's worse, one of the others works for him.”

“You're joking!” Dee began to feel seriously alarmed.

“'Fraid so.” Gilroy consulted the now crumpled fax. “There's a couple called McMountdown. Welch must be bloody keen to do this deal. The McMountdown wife is his lawyer.”

“All ready to draw up a contract, I suppose. Who are the others?”

“McMountdown himself's in Lloyds, and there's another couple called Chancemain, friends of theirs from the same village.”

“How very cosy!” Dee Dee said caustically. “It'll be just like ‘Neighbours.' And who else?”

“Only Welch's wife. Her name's Adrienne.”

“Buck, darling,” Dee Dee only called him Buck when she was furious, yet controlling herself, “we have been set up.” She felt like screaming and tearing her hair. Instead she was icy. “How the hell did you let it happen?”

Mercifully for Gilroy, they were interrupted at this moment by the maid, Tracy, a girl of monstrous girth, but great good nature. In keeping with the times, she did not wear a uniform, only an apron over a bulging print dress. She held out a letter.

“Registered, my lord.” She was aggrieved and sounded it, since this was the butler's job. “He made me sign for it.”

If their minds had not been distracted by the awfulness of the guest list, the Gilroys would have recognized this moment as being portentous. In uncannily correct Agatha Christie fashion, the afternoon post had arrived.

“Could be a cheque for four million,” Gilroy suggested cheerfully, oblivious of the portents, “that would be Welch's style. Trying to force our hands.”

“I wouldn't sell for twenty million!” Dee Dee snapped.

“Twenty? You think…?” There was a sudden diminution in his son Edward's landowning prospects.

“Forget it. Get a grip.” Dee Dee had not devoted herself to saving Wittenham in order to be deprived of the social rewards just as they began to matter. A housing estate in full view of the house would mean selling up completely, as Welch had astutely realized. “Where would we hold Sophie's coming-out dance? How could you dream of cheating her!”

Easily, was the true answer, at least for twenty million, but Gilroy kept quiet and attacked the envelope, trying to slide his forefinger under the flap, then impatiently ripping it apart. The letter inside was on thick, pale-yellow paper from a London literary agency at an oddly residential address off the Fulham Road. He was instantly suspicious. It was the sort of address at which married Members of Parliament kept their girl-friends. As he read it he winced.

“Oh Christ!” he said. “Now we are in the shit!”

“Don't be so mysterious. What does it say?” Dee Dee could hardly imagine a problem worse than having Welch as a house guest.

Gilroy handed her the letter, adding vengefully, “It was your bright idea to use Agatha Christie. All I wanted was a perfectly straightforward murder weekend.”

Dee Dee sat upright on the long sofa, every inch the “grande dame,” and gasped in turn. The letter began, “Dear Sir,” and she understood why her husband had winced. Even creditors used his title. Especially creditors. But this was a cross between a creditor and the bailiffs. This was the representatives of one ancient British institution getting tough with the representative of another. As she read it, Dee Dee realized that Mike Tyson's manager would have insisted on “no contest” in the threatened fight, or, in football terms the result could only be “Agatha Christie (deceased) ten goals, Lord Gilroy of Wittenham nil.” What the letter stated, unequivocally, was that Agatha Christie's literary executors could not agree to any use of material from her books, or of her characters or plots. They would appreciate Lord Gilroy's confirmation that he would not make any such use.