Murder At Wittenham Park (21 page)

“Welch was a bastard. He was paying people in the village to complain about the Lion Park, to try and get it closed down by the authorities.”

“That's hardly evidence against Lord Gilroy.”

“And there's the morphine,” Dee Dee said gloomily. “Somebody's been at the morphine in the medicine cupboard. Morton obviously thinks we laced Welch's morning tea, or the flask of coffee he had, or the whisky.”

Jemma made further commiserating noises, wondering how her father was getting on. She could see through the high windows that it was a lovely evening for a stroll, though she wasn't sure that Loredana would be the perfect companion.

Outside, it was indeed beautiful. The early-evening sun glittered on the lake, which was stirred by a light breeze, and gilded a little stone pavilion that the first Lord Gilroy had built for picnics.

“Shall we go down there?” Jim suggested.

Loredana glanced doubtfully at her feet. She had on the lightest, most supple Italian evening shoes. “I only wear Bruno Magli,” she always told her friends. But would these elegant creations get her through the grass to the lake?

“I'm not really dressed for it,” she said.

She was indeed in a silk evening dress, and Jim felt immediately remorseful. He was too accustomed to Jemma racing around everywhere in the clumsy boots that she thought fashionable. Loredana was altogether more delicate.

“Let's find a bench,” he suggested. “If it's not too cold.”

“Oh, I'm warm enough,” she assured him. “Anyway, it won't take very long.”

They found a garden bench and settled down.

“So how can I help you?” Jim asked.

Loredana turned impulsively towards him and fixed her hazel eyes on his. “You know about Hamish and me, don't you?”

“I'd guessed.”

“We are terribly in love. I've never been in love like this before. It's the real thing. You have to believe me.”

Jim nodded. “You're going to leave your husband?” he asked sympathetically.

“As soon as I can. And Hamish is leaving Dulcie, but she's being very difficult. Otherwise we'd be together already and we'd never have come on this dreadful weekend.” She shuddered. “I can't believe it's happening. How did we ever get involved?”

“I thought Hamish had business connections with Mr. Welch.”

“Not that mattered.” Loredana was dismissive. “No, we were here to make up the numbers. George didn't want any other outsiders if possible.” She realized she had made a faintly insulting remark. “I'm so sorry, because I know you're outsiders. But you see what I mean.”

“Don't worry. I'm not offended.” Jim doubted if this was all she wanted to say and prompted her. “So actually Hamish spent last night with you?”

“How did you know?” She sounded genuinely surprised. “Dulcie was fast asleep and he came along to my room.”

“Around midnight?”

Loredana paled. “Yes.”

“Jemma heard footsteps in the passage. She's a very light sleeper.”

“We were together the whole night. When the maid came round with the tea, he went down to the kitchen to get some coffee. And that's where he was when the screaming started.” She switched on all her charm. “I admit it was terribly stupid of us. He should have left much earlier and gone back before Dulcie woke up.”

“We did hear somebody. It wasn't him?”

“Definitely not. Perhaps it was Priscilla.” Loredana smiled. “She is a bit unpredictable.”

“You're probably right. Jemma caught sight of a woman in a night-dress.”

“Hardly Hamish! He has that awful dressing-gown. That is one thing that will have to go when we're together. That and his striped pyjamas.” She laughed prettily. “What nonsense I'm talking. The thing is, we don't want Dulcie humiliated.”

“So this afternoon he had to pretend that he'd been with her?”

Loredana nodded. “You see, it would be so hurtful for her if everyone knew. We have to protect her until the weekend's over.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Jim said non-committally, surprised at this solicitude for the woman she was supplanting. “So you'd rather I said nothing to the inspector?”

“If you could.” She gazed at him imploringly.

“But he would keep it to himself,” Jim assured her, thinking that Morton must have wondered why Hamish had gone straight along the corridor to the back stairs in his quest for coffee, rather than down the main staircase. Hamish did not seem a back-stairs type of man. Presumably one of the staff had seen him come down the back stairs on Saturday morning, so he had to go that way.

“Can one trust the police?” Loredana asked. “It would be too awful if he mentioned it, and then everyone would be staring at Dulcie and us.”

“All right,” Jim agreed. “I won't say anything.” Then it occurred to him to add what should have been obvious. “Of course, being together does give you both an alibi.”

“An alibi?” For a few seconds Loredana was puzzled. “You mean for the murder. Oh, but how silly. Why on earth should either of us want to hurt Welch? I'd never set eyes on him before.”

“So that doesn't worry you?”

“Not one bit. The important thing is that Hamish and I were terribly stupid and we must keep it secret.”

“Well, I promise to do my best.”

“Thank you so much.” Loredana leaned across and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “I knew you'd understand.”

Back at the house, in his interview-room, Inspector Morton, was already on to the same subject. He was having everyone unobtrusively watched, and Timmins had seen Jim and Loredana go out.

“Probably sweet-talking Savage into keeping quiet about her lover,” Morton remarked cynically, “as though everyone doesn't know. And why did Savage nip off down the passage while we were doing the re-enactment? I must have words with that man.” He shifted to a more immediate question. “Whose fingerprints were on the morphine bottle?”

“Mainly the butler's. The others are quite old and overlaid by his.” Timmins paused. “You do know, sir, that morphine is very fast-acting.”

“The pathologist told me. And it tastes bitter, so it would have made whisky taste odd. If Welch was given morphine he must have only taken it around seven and in a liquid that disguised the taste.”

“Strong tea?”

“That's probably how Welch liked his. Used to work on building sites, didn't he?” Morton tapped away on the table with his Biro, as he always did when perplexed. “For the sake of argument, if the opiate—and we still don't know what it was—was in Welch's morning tea, who put it there? Don't tell me! Just about everyone could have done. The butler or the maid before it was taken up. Lady Gilroy when the tray was outside Welch's door. Welch's wife, because it's hard to believe she went to his door and didn't go in. If McMountdown did as he pretended this afternoon, he could have done. But they'd have had to do it before the screaming began, because afterwards there were too many people around.”

“Assuming they had the poison,” Timmins observed.

“And the motive.” Morton began clearing his papers from the table, preparatory to locking them up. “Let's get back to the Carpenters' Arms. I could use a beer.”

The pleasure of being hosted at dinner by the Gilroys had lost its appeal for this weekend's guests. The brochure had promised that Sunday evening would see the climax of the murder-mystery weekend, when clues were unravelled. George Welch would have been dramatically denounced as the killer of Mrs. Sketchley. Then there would have been a final champagne toast, a speech by Lord Gilroy, and everyone would have gone to bed happy. On Monday morning they would all have left Wittenham Park, ready to sing its praises to anyone in search of an amusing and unusual weekend.

“Unusual it has been,” Dee Dee remarked to Buck as they prepared to join their guests again, “amusing absolutely not. I wish to God that inspector could get on and arrest someone. For my money it's Welch's wife. She admits she stands to clean up a million or so.”

But after the avocado mousse decorated with prawns had been served, and they were waiting for the main course of roast turkey, it was Priscilla who became the target. Furthermore, the way that this came about seemed curious to Jim.

The seating arrangements were the same as before, with Dee and Gilroy at either end, while Hamish faced Priscilla across the centre. Quite unexpectedly, Hamish turned the subject on to who saw Welch last.

“That ridiculous re-enactment missed the point,” he said. “What matters is who saw George last and who had the opportunity to give him poison.” He eyed Priscilla. “You told us yourself that you drugged his cocoa.”

“Which then put me out for the count,” Dulcie cut in. She was still aggrieved at this having facilitated her husband's infidelity.

“And that he tried to rape you,” Hamish continued relentlessly. “What else went on?”

A discreet cough interrupted them. Dodgson and Tracy were in the doorway, waiting to hand round plates as Gilroy carved the turkey.

“I think the whole thing's disgusting,” Adrienne complained. “Talking about the dead like that when they can't answer back.” She dabbed at her eyes, though she had become noticeably more composed since this morning. Then, as Dodgson placed a helping of turkey in front of her, she looked sideways at him and made an accusation. “And what were you doing, may I ask, letting his cocoa be drugged? Cocoa! George would never have drunk that stuff anyway. What he wanted was whisky, and you know it!”

Dodgson drew himself to his full five feet nine inches and stepped back a pace, making sure that the entire table could hear him.

“That is correct, madam,” he said in his screechy voice. “And not once, but twice, since you ask.”

“What do you mean, twice?” Adrienne demanded, but sounding unnerved. “There was only one decanter in his room.”

“A second was sent up not long before midnight.” He glanced apologetically at Dee Dee. “His lordship's instructions were to give the guests whatever they wanted.”

“That was carrying it a bit far, Dodgson,” Gilroy said, standing back from the sideboard, the carving knife and fork still in his hands. “Too damn far, frankly.”

“Are you accusing my husband of being a drunkard?” Adrienne shrilled.

“I'm accusing my butler of being a fool,” Gilroy snapped with a terseness that he seldom displayed. The whole scenario was getting on his nerves.

That's torn it, Jim thought. Now Dodgson will spill the beans about Priscilla's having taken up the second decanter. He was right.

“If that is your lordship's opinion,” Dodgson said with all the dignity he could manage, while Tracy stood by the door trying not to titter, “your lordship may like to know that the second decanter was requested for him by Mrs. Worthington.”

There was a traditionally deathly hush, of just the kind Dee Dee had planned when the murderer was revealed.

“And what were you doing taking my George whisky, may I ask? In the middle of the night?”

There was no convincing answer to this question, which Priscilla knew. However, she made an attempt.

“When I took him the cocoa he asked for more whisky.”

“As if you were the maid?”

Priscilla looked imploringly down the table at Jim. “He understands.”

Jim decided to do his best and confirmed that the “murder” had required Welch to give “poisoned” cocoa to Mrs. Sketchley, which Priscilla had taken up. Then he had demanded more whisky.

“I think Mrs. Worthington faced a dilemma,” Jim said, measuring his words. “She was employed to make the murder plot work. She had not anticipated Mr. Welch's request. What else could she do?”

“Keep herself to herself,” Adrienne said bitterly.

“None the less,” Dulcie said in her clear voice, “this means that Priscilla was the last person to see George last night, not me.”

She had been careful to say “last night” rather than “alive.”

While this was going on, the butler had been standing immobile, so Gilroy asked him to continue and, when he returned to the sideboard, muttered, “Sorry, Dodgson. This business is getting on all our nerves.”

“I don't believe a word of it,” Adrienne restarted the dispute. She had long been suspicious of Dulcie's late-night meetings with her husband, but this was worse. “And how long did you stay in my husband's room, Mrs. Worthington? Half the night, I suppose?”

“No!” The cry was wrung out of Priscilla. “He wanted to talk, but I didn't. I was hardly there ten minutes.”

“Talk? At that time of night?” Adrienne could conjure up a good line in scorn and at last she had a target for her resentment at George's infidelities.

This was too much for Priscilla. Genuine tears filled her eyes, her mascara began to run, and she found herself shaking uncontrollably. She was fifty years old and out of work, but she was of good family, and here she was being treated like a slut by a thoroughly common woman. She got up from her chair.

“I can't…” she began, then sobbed, “I won't be treated like this. All I was trying to do was help.”

As she walked unsteadily towards the door, Jim sprang to his feet, took her arm, and guided her back to the library.

“Dodgson,” Dee Dee said with total calm, “you'd better put Mr. Savage's meal in the oven to keep warm. I don't expect Mrs. Worthington will be wanting hers.” She turned to Hamish. “Now why on earth did you start all that going? Let's please talk about something else. The weather. Anything.”

She was right, Jemma thought. Why had Hamish provoked this conversation? He must have known where it might lead, except that he could not have known that the butler would let the cat out of the bag about the whisky. She was tempted to follow her father out, but decided against it. He would deal with Priscilla better by himself.