The Nine Bright Shiners (16 page)

Not for the first time, the bluff friendliness struck Rollo as false. ‘Diabolically,' he answered shortly. ‘The police have been here.'

‘Police?' Sinclair's voice sharpened. ‘What the hell for?'

‘Asking questions about this man that was murdered. Marriott. I presume you knew him?'

‘The journalist, you mean? I knew he was sniffing round, but he'd nothing to go on. How the hell did they connect him with you?'

‘God knows, but they thought it was him I'd lunched with in November.'

‘I sincerely hope you didn't enlighten them?' The silken tones were no longer friendly.

‘Be reasonable, Roy; I had to. They already knew I was there – the time we arrived, the time we left.'

‘Sweet mercy,' said Sinclair softly. ‘And Camilla?'

‘She wasn't mentioned, but I should think they know about her.'

‘And they got all this from that bloody journalist?'

‘Must have done.'

‘I'd give a lot to know what else they dug up.'

‘You'll soon find out,' Rollo said ironically. ‘They'll be up to see you, you can bet. I'm just warning you, so you can cover your tracks. For all our sakes.' He replaced the receiver and wiped a hand wearily over his face. Then, with a sigh, he returned to the morning's business.

It was blissfully warm in the Research and Education Centre, but outside the plate-glass windows, sleet fell horizon tally over the bleak stretches of water. A group of visitors, muffled against the cold, were throwing crusts to a jostling crowd of birds, some of which had come out of the water and were waddling among their benefactors' legs. A little girl, nervous of their proximity, began to cry, her voice a thin wail through the thick glass.

Jan left the children watching the scene outside, and went over to the wall maps showing the natural habitat of the birds. Instinctively, she paused at the one of South America.

‘Thinking of your dear brother?' Miles inquired, handing her a plastic cup of coffee.

‘Just Peru generally. Sorry. I know it bores you.'

‘I'm surprised it doesn't bore you, too. We're in the same position, after all.' He sipped his coffee, his eyes on the map.

‘Have you ever wondered,' he said unexpectedly, ‘why neither of our fathers went back after 'fifty-five?'

Jan turned to him in surprise. ‘Yes, I have. What's more, the police were asking, too.'

Miles frowned. ‘What the hell's it got to do with them?'

‘I don't know. Miles, can I tell you something rather odd? I was reading a book of Sir Reginald's last night, and –'

‘Come
on,
Mum!' Ben had appeared at her side and was tugging impatiently at her hand. ‘It's stopped snowing – let's go out and look at the geese.'

With a glance of smiling apology at Miles, Jan allowed herself to be led towards the door. After a moment, abandoning his coffee on a convenient shelf, Miles followed them.

‘The trouble is,' Webb said heavily, as they reached the outskirts of Broadminster, ‘there are two possible motives for Marriott's death. Either he was treading on someone's toes, or he was killed to implicate Edward Langley. He
might
have died simply because he looked like Langley, though the killer must have known he wasn't. If he was close enough to steal Langley's wallet, he probably knows him personally.'

‘We don't know it was the killer who stole the wallet,' Jackson objected, negotiating a right-hand turn. ‘Marriott might have been on to something about Langley, and took his wallet to try to verify it. Langley could have caught him at it, and given chase.'

‘And killed him, you mean? Then why and by whom was Lily Carr murdered?'

‘Perhaps we'll find out now,' Jackson commented, drawing up outside a small chalet bungalow. No one had troubled to clear the path, and the detectives crunched over the snow to the front door. It was opened at their knock by a pale, red-eyed young woman who had a child clinging to her skirt.

Webb introduced himself, and she stepped to one side.

In the hall they were met by a strong smell of damp washing, the cause of which was apparent as they were shown into the back room. A clothes-horse stood in front of the fire, festooned with nappies. A baby of some six months lay kicking in a playpen and the floor was littered with toys. The woman pushed her lank hair off her face.

‘Sit down, if you can find a place.'

Jackson, the father, paused for a look at the kicking baby, and was rewarded by a toothless grin. Webb removed a legless teddy bear from a shabby wicker chair and seated himself.

‘I'm sorry to trouble you at such a time, Mrs Bennett, but I'm sure you'll appreciate it's necessary. You lived with your mother?' he added somewhat unnecessarily.

The woman's eyes filled. ‘That's right. She took me and the kids in when Pete went off.'

‘And when was that?'

‘Soon after the baby was born. Said he was fed up with flipping kids. How did he think I felt?'

‘Did your husband ever knock you about?'

She looked at him in surprise. ‘Sometimes, when he'd been to the pub. He was always sorry after – and he never laid a finger on the kids. That I will say for him.'

‘Did he get on well with your mother?'

The direction of the questioning finally reached her, and she hurried to defend her erring husband. ‘He wouldn't knock her over the head, if that's what you're getting at. If he
had
wanted to, he'd have done it here, wouldn't he, not up at Rylands?' She paused. ‘Anyway,' she added defiantly, ‘he'd a lot of time for Mum, had Pete – the way she'd brought me up after Dad was killed, and all.'

‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have wished your mother harm?'

She moved impatiently. ‘Of course not. Why should they? Mum wouldn't have hurt a fly.' Her mouth trembled. ‘Look – it's obvious, isn't it? A burglar broke in expecting the house to be empty, and found Mum there. She wouldn't have stood a chance.' She began to weep softly.

She was probably right, at that, Jackson reflected, pen poised over his notebook. This was a necessary but unrewarding task and he'd be glad when it was over. Other people's grief distressed him, made him feel like a voyeur. Same on the telly, nowadays. Every time you switched on, some poor blighter was being asked how they felt on hearing that their husband or mother or son had been killed.

Methodically, he noted down the Governor's questions and the woman's replies. Could do with a cuppa, but it didn't look likely. The interview ground on, with the soft gurgling of the baby in the background and the rhythmic squeak of a rocking-horse as the little girl rode endlessly backwards and forwards.

Hard on the kids to be deserted twice, even if the second time wasn't deliberate. Lost their Dad and lost their Gran, poor little perishers, and it was anyone's guess how long the mother'd be able to cope.

With a sense of relief he saw Webb getting to his feet. They were free to go.

‘Not much joy there,' he offered, as they crunched their way back to the car.

‘In more ways than one,' grunted Webb. ‘We'll call in at Court Lane and see how the house-to-house is going. And,' he added, with a sidelong glance at Jackson, ‘no doubt we'll be offered a cup of tea.'

Going home through the snow-lit country dark, the children chatted softly in the back seat about the strange and beautiful creatures they'd seen. Jan, relaxed now in the warm car after the stimulating cold outside, was aware of their voices only as undulating waves of sound. It had been a happy day, a welcome respite from the worries and fears that awaited her return, and she was grateful to Miles for arranging it.

The visit to his mews house offered an extended moratorium, and while she moved, entranced, from one oil painting to another, read the spines of the volumes in the bookcase, and studied the marble bust on its plinth, the children ran up the stairs and hung over the balcony rail. They were equally enthralled by the hidden, pocket-sized kitchen and the carved animals on the low tables.

‘I hope you're well insured!' Jan commented. ‘All this must be worth a fortune.'

‘I buy only what I like,' Miles replied, handing her a glass of wine. ‘A friend of mine, Richard Mowbray, owns an antique shop in Monks' Walk, and lets me know when anything interesting comes in.'

‘Not Pennyfarthings?'

‘That's the one. Have you been in?'

‘I bought Edward and Rowena's Christmas presents there. They said something about a murder,' she added with assumed nonchalance.

‘There've been murders in many places, Jan. If you let that worry you, you'd never go back to Rylands.'

She shuddered and sipped her wine. He was right. It had startled her, at Christmas, to learn of the Pennyfarthings murder. She'd little thought that two more would touch her much more closely.

To escape the thought, she moved over to the desk, whose surface was covered with sketches and artwork.

‘Is this the project you were telling me about?'

He joined her. ‘That's right. Three hundred years of Buckhurst Grange and the Cleverleys. The family crest, here, will feature on second-class stamps, and this miniaturized photo of the house on first-class. For higher denominations, I've looked out portraits of outstanding members of the family, starting with the first Lord Cleverley.'

‘It all looks most impressive.'

‘I'm doing the TV tie-in at the moment. It's going quite well, but we're at a delicate stage of negotiations and I'll breathe more freely once it all receives committee approval. Now –' He walked back to the fire and threw on another log. ‘I've put plates to warm in the oven. Who'll come with me to the Chinese to choose our supper?'

‘I will!' said both children together.

‘Then if you'll tell me where things are, I'll lay the table,' Jan offered.

It was an informal and enjoyable meal, with Miles more relaxed than she'd seen him. Again it surprised her that, unused to children as he was, he should be so natural with them.

Later, as she was washing the dishes at the sink in the cupboard, he commented, ‘You mentioned a book of Sir Reginald's.'

‘Oh, yes.' Jan glanced over her shoulder. The children were just behind her, playing with a beautiful old Solitaire set. ‘It wasn't important,' she said. She did not wish to speak about jewels in their hearing till she'd discovered what was worrying them.

‘But you've aroused my curiosity.'

‘Another time,' she answered quietly.

‘Ah, I see.
Pas devant les enfants.
Very well, I'll contain myself.' He dried a glass carefully and reached above her to place it on a shelf, and his sudden closeness sent an uncontrollable
frisson
through her body which she prayed he hadn't noticed. Hastily she tipped the water away, dried her hands, and moved out of the enforced intimacy of the tiny kitchen.

But half an hour later, when the children ran ahead of her into the hall of Cajabamba and she turned to Miles for a last word of thanks, it was clear her reaction had been noted. With a swiftness that took her by surprise, he bent forward and kissed her, briefly but penetratingly. Then he turned and ran back down the steps, leaving her weak and shaking, leaning against the door-frame for support. With an effort she straightened and closed the door, on Miles and, she hoped, on the incident. But her trembling body, deprived for months now of its lovemaking, warned her that in future she must be careful not to be alone with Miles.

Saturday morning, and still the snow fell. Jan stood at the window watching the soft, uneven flakes landing on the sill, restlessly wondering how they should pass the day. With half her mind, she wanted to return to Rylands; despite the horror, it was more home than the elderly ambience of Cajabamba. And they couldn't stay here for the three and a half weeks that remained of their visit; it would be an imposition on Lady Peel and too restricting for the children.

Yet the other half of her shrank from the thought of being alone, surrounded by the silent snow, looking fearfully for unauthorized footsteps round the house.

She turned back into the room. Lady Peel had not yet come down, and the children were colouring some books they'd bought at Ringmere. At least she could have the talk with them that she'd been promising herself. She walked over to the games table and sat down opposite Julie.

‘I have some questions I'd like to ask you both,' she said quietly. ‘First, Ben, why did you tell Julie the man who killed Lily would kill you, too? And Julie, what did you mean by saying the Crown Jewels weren't as good as Aunt Rowena's?'

The children had both looked up, and a warning glance passed between them.

‘I want the truth,' Jan continued. ‘You've both been worried about something, and I want to know what it is.'

There was a long silence, then Ben said gruffly, ‘OK, we'll tell you if you'll promise not to be cross.'

‘Well?'

He wriggled on his chair, looking quickly at his sister and then away again. ‘Remember the morning we explored the house, and then went to play upstairs?'

‘I remember.'

‘Well, there was nothing interesting in the attics, so Julie decided to dress up. She was going to put on your cocktail frock, but then Lotus hooked open Aunt Rowena's door. Lily couldn't have closed it properly when she'd been dusting.'

‘Go on.'

Ben flushed and started doodling on his crayoning book. ‘Well, you know what a fuss she'd made, when I nearly went in by mistake. We thought since the door was open, we'd have a look and see what was so marvellous. It seemed pretty ordinary, but there was a belt hanging out of the wardrobe and Lotus started playing with it. We thought she'd scratch the leather, so we opened the door to push it inside. And when Julie saw Aunt Rowena's clothes she thought it would be more fun to dress up in them.'