Murder At Wittenham Park (8 page)

The stilted conversation was mercifully cut short by Priscilla Worthington making her entrance, wearing a low-cut black evening gown with a gauzy see-through top up to her neck and down to her wrists. Priscilla knew how to pile on the glamour.

“Darlings,” she announced, swaying slightly as she accepted her clue, “how too mysterious for words. We must all keep our ears to the ground!” She advanced on Dee Dee. “Dear Mrs. Sketchley,” she accented the “dear” heavily for effect, “how good it is of you to ask all your family for the weekend. Such a privilege for me to meet them all again. A companion's life is not always a happy one.” Then she added to the others in a hissing undertone, “Actually I hate the old bitch.”

Total silence greeted this theatrical foray.

Hamish's face froze, as though she'd impugned the honour of the McMountdowns, or a cab driver had addressed him as “friend.” Hamish was starchily snobbish about virtually everything.

Dee Dee decided Priscilla must be tanked up to the eyebrows, and was working out how to prevent her getting any more to drink, when Dodgson saved her by announcing that dinner was served. As soon as the guests had gone through, he whispered throatily to Dee Dee that Tracy, the maid, insisted on speaking to her.

“This moment?”

“Yes, milady.”

Oh God, Dee Dee thought, she can't be going to give in her notice now! She agreed to see the girl very briefly and, when the guests had been taken to the dining-room, Tracy came in looking flustered.

“Well, Tracy,” Dee Dee demanded brusquely, “what's the problem?”

“I'm not taking him his early-morning tea. No way.” Tracy's language was an odd mixture of shop-girl English and TV Americanisms.

“Who?”

“That Welch. When I went to make up his room he pinched my—”

“Goosed you?”

Tracy's face reddened. “Yes, milady. I won't do it. No way when he's there, I won't. He can have a tray left outside his door.”

Normally Dee Dee would never dream of her guests' not having tea taken in to them. The place might just as well be a hotel. Damn Welch! But it was a solution. Instead of castigating the maid, she beamed at her.

“What a clever idea! But you must do the same for everyone. And if he bothers you again, we'll call the police.” Dee Dee rather hoped he would, though the idea of anyone goosing a girl as fat as Tracy was bizarre. Then it occurred to her that while she had the chance she ought to remind her about tomorrow morning's happenings. “And don't forget, you come to the State Bedroom at seven-thirty, pretend you've found me dead, run out into the passage and start screaming the house down.”

Tracy brightened up. She'd enjoy doing that. “Yes, milady,” she said enthusiastically. “I'll scream like a banshee.”

“Perhaps not quite so loud. Just so that everyone hears.”

With this agreed, Dee Dee made her way through to the dining-room and was pleased to find that Dodgson had followed her orders implicitly. There was silver everywhere. A pair of massive candelabra graced the long mahogany table. Between them stood a silver statuette of a Guardsman in a bearskin. Silver saltcellars and pepper-pots, solid silver cutlery and slender-stemmed wine glasses all helped complete the atmosphere promised in the brochure.

Welch had been audibly impressed, while Jim Savage understood why his hostess was concerned about theft. He wouldn't put it past Adrienne or the tipsy Priscilla to slip a souvenir into their handbags; nor Welch to pocket a spoon. Even the seating plan was indicated by crested name cards held in little silver clips.

Where to put people had worried Dee Dee. The main thing was to keep Welch at one remove from both herself and Buck. So he was on one side of the centre facing Hamish, with Jemma and Dulcie separating Gilroy from them at the far end, while she had Savage on her right and the two remaining women on her left. Loredana sat smirkingly next to Hamish. Trevor Chancemain had still not arrived and it had occurred to her to invite Ted, the lion keeper, to improve the balance, but he had no small talk.

Overall it was not a bad plan. Jim Savage could tip her off if anyone did start stealing the spoons and she could keep an eye on Priscilla's drinking. But she had overestimated her ability to insulate Welch from Buck. Unexpectedly the man who broke the barrier was Hamish.

The prawn with thin slices of avocado had gone down well and Dodgson was about to go round with a dish of chicken Maryland when Hamish leaned towards Buck.

“Sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings,” he said, “but just before I left the office I heard that Lloyds has posted another six-billion loss. Calls for up to half a million will be sent out tomorrow morning.”

Gilroy's face paled and the impact on him was so obvious that even Priscilla stopped chattering, though she ostentatiously held up her wineglass for it to be refilled by Dodgson.

“That don't worry me,” Welch said quickly, “I ain't on the worst syndicates.” He caught Hamish's eye and Hamish nodded halfheartedly, or so it seemed to Jim.

“How d'you know about Lloyds?” Gilroy asked.

“For my sins,” Hamish said unctuously, “I work there.”

At this point Jim Savage began taking serious note of the conversation. There was something staged about the remarks Hamish was making, and about Welch's intervention. He glanced at Dee Dee and saw that her expression was tight and angry.

“Are you heavily involved?” Dulcie asked Gilroy with polite concern.

“Yes, damn the buggers.”

“I'm so sorry.” Her concern now sounded more deeply felt.

“It's the estate I'm worried about,” Gilroy said, disregarding a warning look from Dee Dee.

Behind him Dodgson, still holding the decanter of white wine, stiffened and Jim saw an expression of extreme dismay cross his drooping face.

“How do I stop those bastards from taking my land?”

“Speaking as a lawyer,” Dulcie said quietly, “probably the only way out is to raise money on it and deposit that in an offshore bank account ahead of getting the demand. If you say you've already spent the money, how can they prove you haven't?”

“That's an idea,” Gilroy conceded, but before he could say any more he was firmly interrupted by his wife.

“If we must talk business, let's at least talk the murder plot.” Dee Dee made a sign to Dodgson to start serving again, then fixed her gaze on Welch. “Now, let's get one thing utterly clear. I am not about to be blackmailed.”

“Accusing me of blackmail, are yer?” he reacted quite violently.

“Since you have the nerve to ask, yes, I am.”

There was another moment of absolute silence.

“There's witnesses to that,” Welch said venomously. “I'll sue yer. And your perishing 'usband.”

“That will be difficult,” Dee Dee said calmly, having made the real-life point she intended, “since my husband, John Sketchley, has been dead for eleven years.”

Priscilla tittered and gradually the laughter of nervous relief spread around the table, as everyone else realized that this was playacting and could be the dispute referred to in the first clue; everyone, that was, except Welch. He glared at Dee Dee.

“Too bloody clever by 'alf, ain't you. Thought you 'ad me on the hop, eh? You make accusations like that again and we'll be meeting in court.”

“You should have read the clue, Mr. Welch.”

“People are as guilty as they think they are,” chimed in Priscilla, gesticulating with her newly refilled glass and spilling some on the table. “As Carr, you must be the blackmailer, Mr. Welch.”

“I think it's time for the next clue,” Dee Dee said, as Welch lapsed into a sullen scowl, his face becoming more highly coloured than ever, “even though you mustn't throw away the first one.”

Since Dodgson was busy serving the chicken, Gilroy got up and handed out the second set of clues.

“Watch out for who drinks what,” the slip of paper advised. “And whoever is last to bed, please turn out the lights.”

“The proverbial coffee-cups, I suppose,” Jemma said to Gilroy.

“Have to wait and see.” Gilroy was still trying to figure out what exactly his wife had been doing in challenging the property developer, even though he recognized an underlying purpose from her tone. It had been Dee Dee's “telling you off” voice. Was she trying to warn him of something? Certainly Welch had been blustering and unpleasant, but he had made no threats. So what was all this about? Gilroy hated being talked to in riddles.

The rest of the meal was uneventful, although Welch attempted to engage Loredana in conversation across the table, while Hamish surreptitiously stroked her thigh underneath it. They all returned to the library for coffee. Dee excused herself early and one by one the others drifted off, though not before Priscilla, now decidedly tipsy, asked Welch if he would take a bedtime mug of cocoa in to “Mrs. Sketchley.”

Welch erupted as violently as one of those volcanoes that gives jets engine failure and halts all traffic for hundreds of miles.

“Take it yer bloody self. What d'yer think I am, a bloody skivvy? You can bloody well tell that doddering butler to send me up a whisky, too. And not a glass. A bottle.”

He charged out of the room like a bull that couldn't wait to gore the next matador. However, Priscilla decided to do as he had asked, and get a small snifter of the right stuff for herself at the same time. Accordingly, she rang the bell, and after a wait Dodgson appeared. He was reluctant to send Welch an entire bottle, but graced the refusal by saying he would place a small decanter and a bottle of soda in his room. Prudently, noting Priscilla's condition, he fetched her only a cut-glass tumbler and served her there and then in the library.

Meanwhile, as Jemma and Jim were going upstairs, they again heard noises from the room off the hall. No one else seemed to be interested, or perhaps they all recognized the clue “row” as having been the one at dinner. Jemma tiptoed to the door and put her ear to it. She heard what might have been Dulcie's relatively deep voice say, “Go ahead, then!”

Gilroy came striding through the hall and she hastily backed away. He opened the door and went in. She noted the time. It was nine thirty-six.

“We seem to be having a very early night, Daddy,” she commented. Early nights were not her big thing.

“Speak for yourself, my dear,” Savage commented wryly.

Savage was one hundred percent right. Whereas he swiftly fell asleep in his room, she could not get to sleep, so she lay in bed reading. Shortly before midnight she heard surreptitious footsteps pass her door, going towards the east wing. Then she did fall asleep until she was woken by a knock on the door and the maid's voice.

“Your tea's outside, miss.”

She checked her watch. It was 7:10
A.M
. Early to rise was no more Jemma's motto than early to bed. She had to force herself to get up, sleepily open the door and bring in the tray. As she did so she realized that there was activity down the passage towards the west wing. That was to say, she heard noises. All she actually saw was the back of a tall woman in a lacy night-gown disappear into one of the doorways farther along, and she only glimpsed her from the waist down, because she was leaning forwards as she opened the door.

Jemma stood in the passage for another moment, holding her tray and wondering who would emerge next from where. However, nothing happened and she felt stupid standing there. The time was seven-fourteen. She went back to bed. Minutes later she thought she heard footsteps in the passage, but could not be bothered to move. It was bad enough that at any moment there would be a murder.

Fifteen minutes later, piercing screams from the maid shattered the quiet of the house.

Jemma shot out of her room, as did her father out of his. A door at the west end of the passage opened and Dulcie came out, a short coat on over her night-dress.

“She's dead!” Tracy screamed, as soon as she had an audience. “Milady's dead!” She stopped, realizing she had got it wrong, mumbled something and started again. “Mrs. Sketchley's dead!” It was not an easy name to scream, so she added an easier word: “Help!”

This brought Loredana along from the east wing, followed by Priscilla, whose room was even farther along there. Both were in their night-dresses, though Loredana had a cream silk dressing-gown over hers. Priscilla was clutching a gown, while the lace trim on her night-dress swirled as she ran to join in the drama.

“Oh my God,” Priscilla yelled, making a rush for the State Bedroom door, only to have it firmly shut in her face from the inside. This did not deter her from her mission. “Mrs. Sketchley's been murdered!”

Next on the scene was a bleary-eyed Adrienne Welch, also wearing a night-gown trimmed with lace. She saw that her husband's tea-tray had not yet been used, since the cup was clean. “No point disturbing him yet,” she said. “All I'll get is an earful. See you all later.”

Finally Hamish came up the stairs. “What's the matter?” he asked, as if unaware of the plot.

“Where have you been?” Dulcie demanded.

“Went down to get some coffee. You know I never drink tea.”

Dulcie gave him a filthy look. A moment later Lady Gilroy came out of the State Room dressed in a resplendent, all-enveloping, red satin housecoat. Jemma noticed a flare of white lace from the bottom of a night-gown, which the housecoat did not totally conceal. Lace must be this year's Harrods' fashion, she thought.

“Well,” Dee Dee said, with a definitive edge to her words, “since Mr. Chancemain has not arrived to play the doctor, you can all take it that Mrs. Louise Sketchley has been murdered. A medical bulletin will be issued later. Breakfast is at nine.” She swept off down the passage to the east wing.

“Speaking for myself,” Dulcie said, “I am going back to bed.”

One by one they all drifted off. Jemma was not surprised that Welch had not appeared. As his wife had implied, he was so surly, and so uninterested in the plot, that nothing could be expected of him. She went back to her room at seven forty-four and the landing was deserted once more.