Kith and Kill (3 page)

Rafferty pulled a face. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Right. I'm off. Good luck with it.’ Sam smiled a mischievous smile. ‘Families can be the very devil, so something tells me you'll need it.’ He bade Rafferty and Llewellyn farewell, leaving the inspector staring down at the dead old woman in her frivolously frilled red nightie. She made a good corpse, he decided. Very handsome and with a bone structure that the pale hues of death only served to enhance. It was an unusual ninety-year-old who could carry off not only several shades of scarlet but so many frills, also. ‘Wonder what's in the will,’ he said to Llewellyn. ‘And now we've got official confirmation that this
is
murder, we'd better organize getting that checked out before we do anything else.’

‘I'll get on to it. The housekeeper should know the name of the family solicitor.’

Llewellyn went off downstairs leaving Rafferty with the body. They were still waiting for the Crime Scene Investigators to arrive. Or Scenes of Crime team, as he still preferred to call them. He wasn't one for being influenced by American TV shows. Especially as they didn't always get their facts right. He had given the nod to Llewellyn to phone the SOCOs as soon as he'd heard Dally's pronouncement of the cause of death and he knew Llewellyn would have it in hand.

Rafferty looked around the room. The bedroom was grand, all massive dark wood and scarlet hangings, with a stately four-poster bed that even Henry VIII himself might consider over the top in its size and accoutrements. The four vast wardrobes had intricate carvings and inlays, two either side of a huge full length mirror. It was all on the grand scale. He thought it likely that they were all family pieces handed down from the Victorian era. He guessed none of the younger generation would want any of it. The dressing table, of a similar style to the wardrobes, was laden with lotions and potions and enough make-up to paint the faces of the entire cast of The King and I. Vain, then. Unusual. At ninety, it was surely more normal to have long since given in to the losing battle with time and gravity.

There were photographs of Sophia Egerton all around the room. He picked up one of the earlier ones. She was wearing some kind of Roman dress. Must have been the clothing for a play; the housekeeper had told him Mrs Egerton had been an actress in her youth. She had certainly been beautiful, strikingly so, with a willowy figure and the kind of bone structure models would kill for. Her lips were full, though naturally so, not like the burst tyres of modern times. Her nose wasn't quite as beautiful, being rather Princess Dianaesque in profile, but it suited her somehow. And he still wouldn't have kicked her out of bed, though there was a certain arrogance in the way she held her head as if she were very aware of her beauty and how it could be used to her advantage. Although, as an actress, Rafferty had never heard of her, she had managed to do very well for herself. The house alone must be worth a fortune. And then there was the family business. He'd yet to learn much about that beyond the fact that it was involved in high end dress design. He had a quick look through one of the wardrobes; there was nothing old and slouchy hanging from the rails. Everything was stylish. There were chic little suits and gorgeous dresses for evening functions, though he noticed all of them had high necks and long sleeves. Seems she had a sensible streak and knew an old lady's neck and arms weren't her best features. Cover them up and you could still look stylish. There were enough shoes to give Imelda Marcos palpitations.

Rafferty shut the last wardrobe, closed the bedroom door, locked it and pocketed the key. He nodded at Constable Lizzie Green, who was doing guard duty as he walked past and wondered if Llewellyn had got anywhere with the solicitor. He headed downstairs to find out.

Llewellyn was in the hall and still on the phone. For some reason, the solicitor was being obstructive. Rafferty's lips tightened and he held out his hand for the phone. ‘This is Detective Inspector Rafferty,’ he said. ‘I'm in charge of investigating the murder of Mrs Sophia Egerton. And you are? Right, Mr Selby. I'll need to come to see you this morning as a matter of urgency. How does eleven o'clock sound?’

Mr Selby tried to fob him off, but Rafferty was having none of it. ‘You do understand, sir, that this is a murder case? Someone has done your client to death. I would have thought you would be as keen to find the perpetrator as we are unless– ’ Tempted to say, ‘Unless you're the guilty party’, he was saved from such folly by the solicitor's capitulation. Mr Selby agreed that eleven o'clock would suit just fine. Rafferty smiled, snapped the phone shut and handed it back to Llewellyn. ‘See Dafyd. You've just got to be firm with these legal types. They're used to that, first from their nannies then from the judge presiding. It's in their nature to say ‘yes’ if approached in the correct manner. Right. I suppose we'd better begin getting to know our suspects.’ He had a quick word with Constable Timothy Smales whom he had drafted to front door duty, telling him to let him know when the forensic guys arrived. ‘I'll be in the kitchen.’

Smales sighed, clearly recognizing that he'd be standing doing door duty for hours yet.

‘We all had to do it, lad,’ Rafferty told him. ‘They say it's good for the character.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Tim Smales woodenly.

Rafferty turned away, smiling to himself. He and Llewellyn headed back down the hall and through the green baize door of what had originally been the house's servants’ quarters. They found themselves in a small hall with black and white tiles and hooks for coats. Rafferty could hear raised voices through a half-open, semi-glazed door off to his left. He put a hand out to stop Llewellyn from venturing further and put a finger to his lips. They were going at it hammer and tongs in there.

‘And what about you?’ A male voice, youngish. ‘You said your bookmaker had started to turn nasty over your unpaid bills. Reason enough to kill grannie if you wanted to get your hands on her money. God knows you've done enough bad things in your life not to cringe at murder.’

‘Don't talk such crap. I loved grannie, you know I did.’

‘I know you were always her favourite.’

‘Jealous?

‘No. Just curious as to why grannie's taste in people wasn't as perfect as her taste in clothes. You always were a– ’

‘Must you argue like this? My lady's not cold yet and all you can do is bicker.’ Rafferty recognized the housekeeper's voice. ‘What would the police think if they heard you?’

‘They'd think that one of us is a murderer, Dahlia. And let's face it, they wouldn't be wrong.’

There was a strained silence after that. Rafferty took the opportunity to interrupt this cheery discourse. He opened the door to its full extent and entered the room. Seven pairs of startled eyes swivelled in his direction. It was a large room with a vast, old-fashioned dresser, presumably a leftover from the days when the building housed a large family and plenty of servants. The present-day family sat round a huge, rectangular scrubbed pine table, with the housekeeper and a man who was presumably her husband, the gardener
cum
handyman standing, one near the sink and one by the back door as if ready to bolt.

‘Good morning. I'm Detective Inspector Rafferty. And this is Sergeant Llewellyn.’ He nodded at the housekeeper. ‘I've already met Mrs Sullivan.’ His gaze swept around the table. ‘Perhaps you'd like to introduce yourselves?’

One of the pair of identical thirty something male twins said ‘I'm Adam Chambers and this,’ he gestured to the twin sitting beside him, ‘is Eric, my brother.’

‘And what relations are you to the late Mrs Sophia Egerton?’

‘We're her grandsons.’

Another member of the family introduced herself. ‘I'm Penelope Chambers. I'm mother to the twins. I'm Sophia's only child. This is my daughter, Caroline Templeton.’ The woman she gestured to was in her late thirties. Caroline was a capable, motherly-looking woman and had a comforting arm around the shoulders of one of the twins.

‘It looks like I'll have to introduce myself.’ This from an elderly woman who appeared to be in her eighties. She was overweight, with a screwed up mouth that looked as if she felt permanently dissatisfied with life. ‘I'm Alice Pickford. Sophia was my sister. My elder sister.’ This last was said with an air of defiance as if she expected someone to contradict her. She certainly looked the older of the two sisters. Discontent could play havoc with one's looks, especially when said looks hadn't been of the best to start with.

‘And you, sir?’ Rafferty turned towards the older man who was standing just inside the kitchen door as if he wasn't sure of his welcome.

‘I'm Freddie,’ the man said in a cheery voice that sounded out of place in a house of mourning. ‘Freddie Sullivan. I'm the gardener/handyman. I'm married to Dahlia. Dahlia Sullivan, that is. The housekeeper.’

‘Thank you.’ Rafferty turned to Llewellyn. ‘You've got all that, Sergeant?’

Llewellyn nodded.

‘Right. We'll need to speak to each of you individually. Just a preliminary chat as I have an urgent appointment at eleven. I'll speak to you more thoroughly later today.’ He looked at Dahlia Sullivan, the housekeeper. ‘Perhaps we could start with you?

Dahlia Sullivan looked at him uncertainly. ‘But, surely you'll want to speak to the family first?’

Rafferty smiled. ‘Politically-correct, me. I don't deal in prejudice.’ Behind him, he heard Llewellyn choke on his next breath and hurriedly clear his throat. ‘I'd just as soon speak to the help first as anybody. If you'd like to come with me.’

As though aware of the importance of this, the first interview, Dahlia Sullivan made an almost ceremonial removal of her blue overall, revealing a rather risqué red dress that was low at the bosom and an inch or two above the knee. Not altogether suitable for a woman who must be pushing seventy, was Rafferty's thought, and a housekeeper at that, even if she was well-fleshed. He couldn't imagine his ma in such an outfit and she was some years younger than Dahlia Sullivan. But then Ma had more sense. Strange, as he'd had Dahlia Sullivan down as sensible, too, in spite of the exotic first name. Perhaps it was a requirement of her employment with a family of fashionistas that she keep her end up.

With a lingering air of reluctance, the housekeeper followed him, back through the servant's lobby, through the green baize door, along the hall and into the study. He seated her on the hard chair in front of the desk that had obviously been selected to give its sitter a psychological disadvantage, set, as it was, at a lower level than the master's chair. Perhaps it was where their dead grandfather had sat the twins as schoolboys to administer punishments. The chair certainly made Dahlia Sullivan wriggle uncomfortably.

Rafferty returned to his throne and beamed at her. ‘Now, then. Perhaps we can start with your early-morning routine? You said you always woke Mrs Egerton with a cup of tea at seven-thirty?’

‘That's right. Always liked her tea at seven-thirty sharp. Always had to be Earl Grey.’

‘A lady of regular habits.’

‘Yes. My la– Mrs Egerton was always disciplined. She learned it from her time in the theatre.’

‘Yes, you said she had been an actress. Can you tell me more about her life then?’

‘Yes. We both worked for the same repertory company. I was just starting out and had landed a job as an assistant stage manager. My lady, of course, with her looks, had starring roles, Lady Macbeth. Juliet and Guinevere when she was younger, before I joined the company. She was so beautiful. Still was, even when I first knew her when she was in her forties. Everyone said so.’

‘And what happened when you brought her tea?’

‘That's when I – that's when I found her. Dead she was. Been dead for hours from the look of her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was stiff. I was so surprised when she didn't give me a morning greeting as she always did that I looked properly at her. I shook her shoulder and when she still didn't respond, I took her hand. It was as stiff as a board.’ She broke off and wiped her eyes with a beautifully laundered white handkerchief which she took from the sleeve of her surprising red dress. ‘How can she be gone? How can she have gone and left me? Inseparable we were, from when we first met. She's been part of my life for half a century. To think–’

‘It must be difficult for you.’ Rafferty paused, then asked, ‘And after you had discovered that Mrs Egerton was dead? What did you do then?’

‘I closed her eyes and then went down to the kitchen and told the family.’

‘They were all in the kitchen?’

‘Yes. The family always breakfast in the kitchen. As you saw, it's a large room and their presence at the table doesn't disturb my own work. Today should have been a work day, so they were all there, having their breakfast. All of them apart from my husband. We have a flat over the garage – what was the old stables. He was there, just about to begin his duties in the garden and didn't know what had happened until I rang through.’

‘How did the family take it?’

‘They didn't believe me. They didn't believe that my lady had been murdered.’

‘And what made you think that she had been murdered?’ There had been nothing that would have immediately alerted me, Rafferty thought ruefully.

Dahlia Sullivan hesitated for a few seconds, then told him in a rush, ‘Her arms were up by her head as if she was fighting someone off. She never slept like that. Her water glass had been knocked over and righted again.’

‘Perhaps she'd just drunk it all, feeling thirsty in the night?’