Murder in Style (15 page)

Could
someone be both short-sighted and blinkered? Yes, they could, if their name was Charles Mornay.

Out on the pavement, Ellie stamped her foot. Which hurt. Ow! She stomped around in a circle, thinking it served her right for losing her cool.

She didn't often lose her temper, but every now and then … And this was one of those times … What she'd like to do was to smash his face in, and …

She found herself brought up short by a young mother towing a lad along on his scooter. She said, ‘Sorry,' and sidestepped.

As they passed her, she heard the youngster say to his mum, in a piercing treble, ‘What a funny lady!'

Indeed. Well, what was wrong with her? She'd gone in there firing from the hip, and been caught in the crossfire. Well, not actually crossfire. And not actually firing from the hip. Humph!

Suppose Charles really did have some evidence to prove that Clemmie had done something wrong? Ellie had been berating Charles for not having an open mind. Perhaps she ought to rethink her own approach to the matter as well?

No! No, and
No!
Clemmie was innocent of … whatever.

A taxi idled towards Ellie, and she hailed it. Somewhere she had the card which Gerald Cordover had given her. She'd transferred it from one pocket to another and … ah, with great good fortune, it had ended up in her change purse. On the front of the card were the details for his glass and steel office block on the North Circular. She did not want to go there. Imagine presenting herself at the Reception desk and asking the master of all he surveyed to give five minutes of his time to a gossiping pensioner, who had nothing much to report! She'd be turned away, and quite right, too.

On the back of the card he'd written his home address, which was in a sixties-built estate not far away. Ellie knew it well. The estate was comprised of mixed housing: there were some terraced houses; two blocks of flats four storeys high; and some individual designed four-bedroom houses with well-groomed front gardens and double, if not treble garages attached.

Ellie gave the local address to the cab driver and got in the back, trying not to think of how badly she'd handled the recent interview with Charles Mornay, trying to think of the questions she needed to ask Marika Cordover. Trying to think.

While the taxi trundled along, Ellie got out her phone and accessed her messages. She was not one of those people who kept her phone switched on all the time. When she wanted to be in contact, she switched it on. When she didn't, then she didn't.

There were three voicemail messages from Diana and two texts. Ellie didn't read texts, on principle. If someone wanted to speak to her they could leave a voicemail message, but her eyesight didn't care for the challenge of reading texts. She deleted the lot. She'd get round to soothing Diana at some point, but not just at that moment. Talking to Marika was more important.

The Cordover house was one of the largest detached residences on the estate. Some downsizing! Ellie wondered what on earth their previous house had looked like, with its swimming pool and games room – or was it a cinema?

She rang the bell. It was another warm afternoon and there was not much activity in the road. A plane droned overhead. A lawnmower started up. A woman came out of a neighbouring house, got into a car and drove away.

Marika opened the door. She didn't look surprised to see Ellie, but said, ‘Come on in. I've just put the kettle on.'

Ellie followed her hostess through a square hall with a highly polished floor, into a spacious kitchen which boasted all the latest gadgets. Everything sparkled. Floor-to-ceiling French windows looked out on to a well-groomed lawn where a closed parasol hung lifelessly over some garden furniture. No flowers, but plenty of shrubs. A designer garden, low maintenance. ‘Milk or lemon?' said Marika.

‘Milk, thank you. No sugar.'

‘We won't sit outside. There's a wasps' nest somewhere nearby.' Marika carried the tray of tea things through a second door into a sitting room. This room faced south, and the blinds had been lowered over the windows to keep the sun out. The furniture was pleasantly old-fashioned and comfortable in shades of cream and brown. A little uninspired, perhaps?

The chair into which Ellie lowered herself was the right height for someone of her height and weight, and the small table at her elbow was close enough that she didn't have to reach across to pick up her tea.

There were some seascapes on the walls – Edwardian? Rather good ones. There was a large television set but it was not overwhelming. That day's newspapers had been read and stacked in a pile nearby. A paperback book had been left, open, on the arm of the biggest chair, with a footstool nearby. Gerald's chair? Yes, the TV remote was on the other arm of that chair. The master of the house controlled the telly.

There was no mantelpiece. The house would be heated and cooled by some sort of duct system, or possibly by underfloor heating? A number of Sympathy cards were in a pile on a coffee table nearby.

Marika picked up some knitting. White, fluffy. Something for a baby? She said, ‘Do you knit, Mrs Quicke? I know you can buy outfits for babies in the shops nowadays, but I like to provide something hand-knitted for all the newborn babies in the family.'

Of course, Marika probably had dozens of relations back in Poland, all producing infants and being grateful for a hand-knitted garment. Ellie said, ‘No, I don't knit. I garden.'

Marika smiled, but didn't raise her eyes from her work. Her lips moved as she counted along the row. ‘Ah, I thought I'd dropped a stitch, but all is well.'

Ellie leaned back in her chair and considered her hostess's behaviour.

Marika hadn't asked why she'd come.

Marika looked a lot better than she had done at the funeral. Tired, yes; but calmer, frowning a little as she consulted a pattern for the jacket, or whatever it was she was knitting. She wasn't in distress as she had been at the funeral and reading of the will only the day before. There was no tension in the air.

What a sea change was here! Something had happened to make Marika relax? Which same thing had happened to Celine and Clemmie … but not to Ray, Gordon or Trixie. Whatever could that be? The departure of Juno from the scene?

Marika lifted her eyes from her work. ‘Yes, Mrs Quicke? You have something to tell me?'

Was the woman waiting for a report on what Ellie had been doing? Did she think Ellie had been hired, like a private investigator? Well, so be it. Ellie thought she'd do it with a twist. ‘Was Mr Mornay in love with Poppy or Juno?'

If she'd hoped to upset Marika, Ellie had been mistaken. There was never a hint of discomfort as Marika replied, ‘He could never make up his mind. Then he married someone else.'

‘Mr Mornay thinks Clemmie stole from the firm. I tried to convince him otherwise. He refused to listen.'

Again, no surprise. Marika inclined her head. ‘Twenty-four, twenty-six. It was Trixie, of course.'

‘Of course.'

‘So now you will concentrate on the men.' This was spoken in the same tone in which she'd asked Ellie if she wanted milk or lemon in her tea.

Ellie was intrigued. She tried to push the boundaries further. ‘The family seem to have decided that the police will not be involved, no matter who was responsible for Poppy's death.'

‘I wouldn't say that, exactly.' Marika pulled at her ball of wool. ‘Some things are becoming clearer, while others remain to be decided.'

‘Decided by Juno?'

An inclination of the head. ‘And others.'

‘You know where she is. And it's not at the spa she usually patronizes.'

Marika lifted the pattern closer to her eyes. ‘I really must get my eyes checked some time. Thirty-two … or thirty-four?'

Ellie tried to work out what had been happening. ‘Juno was not well. You got her in your car, with the intention of bringing her back here and putting her to bed. But she asked to be let out at the station. At least, that's what you told Ray. You and Gerald and Clemmie – probably Celine as well – all know where she is, but you're not telling. Very wise.'

‘Yes, indeed. Clemmie is a dear, good girl.'

‘What's Clemmie's new boyfriend like?'

Marika suspended her knitting to frown at the ceiling. ‘The genes are good. She is in no hurry.'

‘And Trixie?'

‘Ah. Yes. Gerald and I thought you might like to go to the meeting she has called at her house to discuss the script for her film. She believes – and maybe she is right – that Juno will provide her with something towards the finance of such a film. I told her you might put in an appearance, as a trustee of your charity. Four o'clock at their house.'

‘Why do you want me to get mixed up with Trixie's daft project? It can't be because you think her film will ever get made. You don't really think Trixie was responsible for her mother's death, do you? If so, it would have been an accident. She wouldn't kill the golden goose. Has she an alibi?'

‘Of sorts. I am not convinced that her agent is a worthy enough person to provide anyone with an alibi. But you will judge for yourself.'

‘And Ray?'

A shrug. ‘I would not wish, myself, to be in his shoes.'

Thinking of the hard businessman who had attended the funeral and the reading of the will, Ellie could only agree. ‘His fate is still to be decided?'

‘I have no idea. And less interest.'

‘What about Gordon?'

A moue of distaste, but no comment.

Ellie said, ‘I saw him hit Clemmie. He demanded that she take him home and look after him. I nearly cheered when she refused.'

A half-smile. Marika held up her knitting to pull it into shape. ‘He will survive, I suppose.'

‘Charles Mornay says it's Gordon who wants to get Clemmie arrested for theft. I assume that you wouldn't want that. Shall I get proof that it was Trixie who stole the money?'

A slight inclination of the head. ‘That would be a good idea.'

‘You are not worried on Clemmie's account?'

‘She is well protected.'

Ellie took a deep breath. Now for the big one. A guess, but it felt right. ‘Juno has left Gordon.' Ellie made that a statement, not a question.

‘Where on earth did you get that idea from?' Marika rolled up her knitting and put it in a padded bag. ‘Look at the time! I promised my husband some of my special borscht soup tonight. Does your husband ask for favourite dishes in this hot weather?'

‘Indeed he does.' Ellie felt colour rise in her face. She'd guessed wrongly. What on earth had led her to believe Juno had left her husband?

Marika got to her feet, smiling. ‘I'll show you out.'

Ellie rose, too, but made no move to depart. ‘Any minute now my friend in the police is going to ring me, to ask what I've discovered about Poppy's death. If I tell her that Juno has disappeared and that no one seems to know where she is, the police will put out an APB for her.'

‘Then you won't tell the police anything. Juno needs rest and quiet.'

‘Does she need to know how her sister died before she comes out of hiding?'

‘What an imagination you have!'

‘If I were in her position, I wouldn't know who to trust, either. Oh, she trusts you and Gerald and Clemmie … but not Gordon and certainly not Ray. Or Trixie. And I don't think she trusts Charles Mornay, either. I do hope her hiding place is a good one.'

‘It is.'

Ellie wondered if Juno had been spirited abroad, to stay in the extended Polish family that Marika had come from. Ellie recalled that Juno's own mother had been Polish, which made Juno half-Polish herself. Yes, that made sense. She could tuck herself neatly away in Poland, surrounded by her extended family.

Ah, but would she have had her passport with her when the will had been read? Um, no. Not unless her flight had been planned. If it had been planned, then she could have gone straight to the airport from the reading of the will, and by nightfall be tucked up in bed with various aunts and cousins clucking over her.

But, if it hadn't been planned, would there have been time for her to go home and get her passport before she got on a plane to Warsaw? Possibly. Hm. It was something to think about.

Ellie said. ‘How long can she remain in hiding? There are decisions to be made which affect the lives of all of you. Ray's debts, Trixie's ambitions, Gordon's living conditions … the houses, the business, the shop … so many people now depend on Juno.'

‘She knows that. She needs time to think.'

‘How much time?'

‘We depend on you, Mrs Quicke, to help us decide.'

Ellie nodded. She'd suspected as much. ‘It is not right to put it all on me.'

A slight smile. ‘I know. I will pray. Every day, every hour since Poppy died, we have argued and worried and grieved about her death. One moment I would tell Gerald that it was an accident and we should accept it, while Gerald would say it was murder. The next moment, we would take the opposite sides, and so it would go on. The police refuse to believe it was murder, and maybe it was an accident. I don't know. No one knows. But, late at night, early in the morning, we couldn't leave the matter alone. We couldn't let it rest.

‘We tried to talk to Juno, but all she would do is weep. She kept getting these flashbacks. Twins, you see. That special bond. As for Gordon … oh, Gordon! He's so dependent on her! But he couldn't leave well alone! Did he try to comfort Juno? No! Anyone would have thought Poppy had died to spite him. Then Ray and his debts … we knew about them, of course, though not in detail. They were a dark cloud hanging over us. We knew they would have to be dealt with, but how? Trixie and her fantasy … so inopportune! Couldn't she see that Juno wasn't able to cope …? And Charles, so stupid … as if Clemmie would steal from us! How ridiculous was that! And, in the scheme of things, how unimportant. But Gordon insisted that she should be charged. It was all too much. No wonder Juno got ill.'