Malice in Miniature (13 page)

“And then Claude came back,” I prompted.

She nodded; her face looked bitter. “Claude came back. I don't know why. I'd thought he was going to stay put in London. Certainly his mother didn't want him here.”

“One can see why,” I said emphatically. “Especially when she cultivated such an image of respectability. I was surprised to see him on Guy Fawkes Day. I thought he'd gone away again.”

“He did, but he came back on Thursday. Last Thursday, a week ago. And that's what started all the trouble.” She stopped and looked at her lap. The hard part was coming, then. I looked as attentive and sympathetic as I possibly could.

“He came to the library.” Meg's hands were twisting in her lap. “I knew the minute he opened the door—he threw it back against the wall with such a crash that I screamed—and then he slammed it shut again and locked it.”

“Meg!”

“Yes.” The hands twisted; her breath came fast and shallow. “It was—bad. He's not a big man, but he can be very strong, and he was in a violent mood.

“He said—things—” Meg's unruly hands, of their own volition, moved to cover her ears. She became conscious of them, then, and clasped them fiercely in her lap. “I tried not to hear. Then he started walking toward me, slowly, and I backed up and backed up until I was against one of the bookcases, and he kept moving closer—”

Her voice broke.

“Meg, stop! I'm sorry, Meg. This is too awful for you. We'll take it as given that Claude is a violent louse, and—”

“No, you don't understand. That was only the beginning of it. Because, you see, Richard rescued me again.”

“But how? You said the door was locked.”

“He broke a window.”

I looked up and saw that the obstruction I had seen, without noticing it, was a wooden panel fixed over the bottom half of one of the lancet windows.

“Good grief! He must have cut himself.”

“Not badly. He was wearing heavy gardening clothes, and gloves. But he got a cut over one eye, and he looked like the wrath of doom when he came crashing in. He'd been in the conservatory and heard me scream, and just came running as fast as he could. And when he couldn't get in the door—”

“Yes, I see. A man of action, it would seem. What did he do to Claude?”

“He would have half-killed him, I think, but I managed to unlock the door and Claude—left.”

I laughed, a little shakily. “He's good at evaporating, isn't he? And you . . .?”

“I got into a frightful row with Richard.”

“But surely—”

“After he'd saved my life? Or my virtue, at least?” She opened her desk drawer and rummaged for a moment, then shook her head and shut the drawer with a frustrated bang. “I stopped smoking years ago, when I was pregnant with Jemima. At times like this I still forget.

“You're right, Dorothy. I owe Richard a lot. But that's part of the problem. I don't want to be obligated to him. He thinks what he's done for me, or our relationship— if you can call it that—gives him the right to order me about. I
won't
be told what to do, even by someone I love!”

I could certainly sympathize with her there. “So you were overwrought anyway, and when Richard tried to boss you around—yes, I see. Then you ran into Claude again on Friday. No wonder you were afraid.”

“Not for myself, not even after what had happened. Claude's a coward; he'd never try anything on when he might get into real trouble. But with Jemima there—I confess, I even kept wishing Richard would turn up, and then when your husband did—well, it was help with no strings attached, and I truly appreciated it. I'm afraid I was rude, I—”

“No, you weren't, and anyway, you thanked Alan, later, through me. You mustn't worry about it. But, Meg, it's probably none of my business, but what is Richard trying to order you to do?” I thought I could guess, but it was certainly time to stop talking about the egregious Claude.

My guess was wrong.

“He keeps insisting that I have to leave the Hall and find a job somewhere else. He wants to marry me, but we couldn't live on just his wages, and there's no other job in Sherebury that would work out for me at all. And now that Mrs. Lathrop is dead—”

She stopped abruptly. I looked at her and was silent.

“Oh, all right. Mrs. Lathrop was trying to get me sacked. She told Sir Mordred we didn't need a curator, that I was just a glorified librarian, and he could hire somebody part-time and save money. I heard her say it one day when she didn't know I was in the next room. Saving money wasn't the reason she wanted me out, though. She was jealous of me, I think. She was jealous of anybody who took up Sir Mordred's time and attention. But she's gone now, and I don't intend to give up a perfectly good job just because of awful Claude!”

“But, Meg, he's a real threat. Why do you have to stay in Sherebury?” I checked myself. “Oh—how stupid of me. It's Jemima, isn't it? She's doing well in school?”

She nodded, with a deep sigh. “We'd tried so many schools, ever since she was four. None of them seemed able to help her, and then we found this one, and they've done wonders. She's happy, she's made friends, she's learning. Dorothy, she's forgotten she has a disability, and I almost forget it, too. I can't spoil that; I can't—”

I'm pretty transparent sometimes. My face must have reflected my thoughts, because Meg stopped abruptly.

There was a little silence.

“Meg—” The words stuck in my throat, but I had to ask. I tried again. “This all happened a week ago, you say.”

She nodded dumbly.

“I saw you two days ago, and you didn't say a word about it. You seemed to be in pretty good spirits, in fact, though Bob Finch told me you'd quarreled earlier with Richard. Why is it upsetting you so much now?”

“Because I—there's been a murder, for the love of—and what right have you—”

Her voice had risen. Neither of us had noticed the opening of the door.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Cunningham. Of course I would not for the world wish to interrupt your tête-à-tête, but if I could just recall your mind to your work for a moment?”

Sir Mordred stood in the doorway, his face fixed in a furious pout.

I
was the first to recover, speaking, for once, with my mind fully engaged. “Sir Mordred, may I offer my condolences? I'm sure you must be devastated by the loss of such a capable housekeeper.”

My careful tact availed me nothing. He muttered something to me and turned back to rant at Meg.

“I did ask you, if I recall correctly, to give me a complete and current list of the collection by lunchtime. It is now five minutes to twelve, and I am being badgered by the police for the list. May I ask if you have found time in your busy social schedule to make any progress at all?”

She had herself back under control. “I have been
trying,
Sir Mordred,” she snapped, “but it isn't easy. The house is in an uproar, the computer catalogue is far from complete, and I am not a machine!” There was fire in her eye. “I'll do my best, but don't expect miracles.
And
I need some figures from John Thoreston, if he ever turns up. Have you heard from him?”

“I have not.” Sir Mordred drew himself up to his full five feet five; his face grew an even richer shade of plum. “Nor do I expect to. I have been informed by the police that Mr. Thoreston is not in his rooms. Nor is his luggage. My accountant, it appears, has flown. Now may I ask when I may expect you to complete this work? Surely it is a simple enough task, if your records are in any sort of . . .”

Only a self-absorbed man like Sir Mordred could have delivered that staggering piece of news as an afterthought. Meg and I were struck dumb. Sir Mordred raved on until he eventually ran out of invective and stood there, drumming his fat little fingers on her desk, waiting for a response.

“Have you not realized,” I said as gently as I could, “what Mr. Thoreston's disappearance may mean?”

He turned to me, directly acknowledging my presence for the first time. “I am not an imbecile, madam. I quite realize that my affairs will be in a shambles for some time, due to the thoughtlessness and incompetence—”

I interrupted him; I couldn't help it. “Sir Mordred, think! An accountant who vanishes often has a very good reason for doing so. I imagine that the police will confiscate the museum's books immediately, if they have not already done so. And have you further considered that an embezzler might have an extremely good motive for murder?”

And then Meg and I were very busy for a few minutes, opening windows and administering water and issuing soothing comments. I couldn't decide whether Sir Mordred was having a stroke, or a heart attack, or simply a fit of temper. He wouldn't let us call a doctor or put him to bed. Eventually I helped him to his office, where he slumped down onto a squashy old leather couch and waved me away.

“Quiet! I need quiet! Just go!”

I went

I would have liked to question the police in the house about the missing accountant, but thought better of it. I was there under false pretences. The moment a policeman with some sense saw me I would be escorted off the property, with all due consideration, but very firmly. I preferred to leave in dignified fashion, on my own. I did stop back in the library for a moment.

“Well, he's settled, for the moment anyway. I think he'll be all right, but he's had a shock. I'd love to know what the police find in those books.”

Meg shook her head. “I'm astonished about John. He was a wet fish, but I'd have sworn he was an honest man. He was certainly competent.”

“Of course it takes a good accountant to cook the books convincingly,” I pointed out. “I don't expect he's stolen much. He didn't look to me like a man of nerve and daring.”

“No.” She shook her head. “But he didn't look like someone who could kill, either.” She sighed, but there was relief in her voice, all the same.

“You're right. Look here, the police don't appreciate my being here, but I'll stay if I can be of any help. I didn't mean to upset you before—I—”

“It's all right I overreacted. Everything's in such a ghastly muddle, and I've been frantic, but I'll cope. It's better, now that we know who . . .”

“Well, then, I'll . . .” I trailed off awkwardly and slipped away.

I did say a few words to the constable at the door about Sir Mordred's collapse, and he promised to have someone look in on him from time to time. He would have promised to take over the nursing duties himself, I think, just to get me off the premises.

I saw Richard Adam on my way to the parking lot He was standing beyond the far corner of the house, intently studying a garden plot. The plants were gray, and sagging with rain; I couldn't see why he was so interested.

He saw me out of the corner of his eye, turned and looked at me for a quick moment, then deliberately walked away without so much as a nod.

I
MPATIENT OF WAITING
until he called me, I put through a call to Alan as soon as I got home, but he didn't return it until I had sat down to a sketchy lunch.

“There have been developments,” I said, hastily swallowing a mouthful of tuna sandwich. “I won't go into details on the phone, but things are looking up for Bob. I'm definitely coming tomorrow; you're still going to be able to meet me?”

“Absolutely. I'm so glad you can come.” His phrasing was formal, and I could hear voices in the background, but the warmth in his voice was good to hear. “If the weather improves, I'll take you for a stroll through the deer park.”

“How Jane Austen that sounds! I'm planning to catch the earliest possible train, but I'll call from Waterloo, because you never know what changes they'll suddenly decide to make. Weekend rail travel, you know.”

“Just get here as soon as you can, my dear.”

Only that, but I finished my sandwich with such appetite that I made another one.

By the time I got as far as London on Saturday morning, the weather had improved enough that I had great hopes of the deer park. The train, by some miracle, was actually running on time, and the sun was shining, if somewhat halfheartedly, when I arrived at Winchfield station.

It was some time before I could speak to Alan. Heedless of the stationmaster, who was looking on with great interest, he'd folded me into a bear hug so tight I could hardly breathe. When he released me he looked me over, top to toe, and gave a great roar of laughter.

“That hat, my dear, is the most ridiculous one I've ever seen you wear, and that is saying a great deal.”

“Don't you like oak leaves? I thought it appropriate to a deer park,” I said primly, “although it really could use a few ostrich plumes to suit the period.”

“Jane Austen's characters wore simple poke bonnets. Unless, of course, you're intending to impersonate Mrs. Bennet.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “Oh, Alan, it
is
good to see you. I didn't know I could miss anyone so much after only three days.”

“Mmm.” It was a typical male non-reply, but the look that accompanied it was entirely satisfactory.

“Have you had your breakfast, my dear?”

“Coffee, a hundred years ago. I thought I'd get a bite in Waterloo Station, but I barely had time to catch the train. I'm starving.”

“Good. There's a charming little cafe on the way, where we can get a proper breakfast. I waited for you.”

Anyone who worries about cholesterol would have a heart attack just thinking about a “proper” English breakfast. If there's something missing that is fattening and artery-clogging, I can't imagine what it is. Eggs, bacon, sausages, fried potatoes, fried bread, grilled mushrooms, grilled tomatoes. Badly prepared, it is a greasy nightmare, but when the cook knows his business it is food for the gods. I ate everything except the canned baked beans that, for some incomprehensible reason, often form part of the meal.