Memory and Desire (27 page)

“Any suspicion of foul play?” Kate asked.

“No. She caught a chill, it became pneumonia, and it carried her away."

“And?” prodded Blake.

“She'd originally intended to leave her entire estate to her great-nieces and nephews, her only family. She'd made a will to that effect in the fifties, long before some of those same nieces and nephews became wealthy. Long before she met my father and began to appreciate just what she had here in the Hall. What she chose to do with The Play shows you that she did begin to appreciate the Hall."

“And then she died without changing her will,” Claire stated.

Richard stood still as a statue. A very good statue, by Michelangelo or Donatello, but cold and hard even so. “It's human nature to think we can cheat death by ignoring its certainty. By not considering what might happen after we die. Yes, she died without changing her will. Her estate, the Hall and the income from The Play, went to her relatives. So my father wrote up a new will, dated a week before she died. He and my mother signed it as witnesses, put the will in Maud's desk, and waited for it to be found. I leave to your imagination the gnashing of teeth when it was found."

“But her relatives were honest,” said Blake. “Instead of burning the will, they gave it to the lawyer. What's his name?"

“Nigel Killigrew. Eight years later he married Melinda Varek and, in a way, sent her here."

“Poetic justice? Or a cruel twist of fate?” asked Kate.

“Both,” Richard said, with a quick glance toward Claire. “One particularly stroppy cousin, Maurice Applethorpe—the wealthiest of the lot, mind you—sent his solicitor to challenge the will. He claimed my father had hounded Maud into depriving her relatives of their rightful inheritance or some such rubbish. But the will passed inspection by the court, Applethorpe was handed a trusteeship as a sop, and the rest, as they say, is history."

An Historie,
Claire said to herself.

“You can shop me to the National Trust if you like,” Richard told Blake. “I doubt it'd be best pleased."

“The Trust would be angry at you,” Blake said, “not at us."

Richard stood immobile. Claire thought of him walking through the darkness of the Hall without needing to turn on a light. Of his mouth moving gently but insistently against hers. Nervous tension, she decided, was like centrifugal force. It was the only thing keeping her from flying to pieces.

Blake thrust his hands deep into his pockets and squared his shoulders. His moustache twitched. “Now then, Lacey, I think you just provided us with another motive for Miss Varek's murder."

“Did I?” Richard returned. “Did her letter have anything at all to do with the will? The bit about willpower—she was referring to the lines in The Play about ‘a woman's will,’ in reference to my—ah—rejecting her. That ties in with the bit about ‘Mr. Stone.’”

“Are you saying her use of that word is nothing more than coincidence? With her married to the lawyer and all?"

“That angle was a bit worrisome, yes. As for the berk who sent the other letters—I don't know whether he actually knows anything or not. I couldn't afford to call his bluff, could I now?"

“Wasn't Killigrew suspicious at all?” asked Kate. “A will not drawn up by a lawyer is a bit dodgy."

“If Killigrew suspected the will was queer he'd have called the court's attention to it,” said Richard. “I've no doubt Applethorpe would've made it worth his while. No. My father was a superb forger. No one doubted the will was in Maud's own hand."

“We'll talk to Killigrew, even so,” Blake told him. “As for you..."

Richard shook himself, as though trying to shrug Blake away. “I couldn't have bunged that letter onto Claire's desk the night we turned up Melinda's body, you said so yourself."

“I don't mean a motive for you personally to have murdered Miss Varek. The entire village benefits from the status quo, doesn't it? PC Wood amongst them. Pakenham is right, his job depends on the tourists. No Hall, possibly no Play, and no more tourists."

“Does Alec know about the fake will?” asked Kate. “Is that what you were talking about this afternoon, the sins and the blessings of the fathers?"

“He knows about the fake will,” Richard answered. “I told him soon after my—after it happened."

“So if the will is your sin,” persisted Kate, “then what's his? Murder?"

“No!"

“How do you know?” Blake demanded.

“He's my friend."

He ain't heavy, Claire added silently, he's my brother.

“You said last week you don't think the Hall is worth killing for. Well, maybe you don't, but someone bloody well does.” Blake turned away.

A faint gleam of sunlight illuminated the western windows. The door opened and Pakenham strode down the corridor rubbing his hands together. “One hour ‘til rehearsal. I told Moncrief you'd be there, Lacey. And you, Claire, if you're up to it."

Richard stared at him. Oh, Claire thought, rehearsal. Once more into the breach, brandishing costumes and masks.

“Make up a timetable for this afternoon,” Blake told his sergeant.

“Yes, sir,” replied Pakenham.

“I'll be interviewing Wood again after the rehearsal."

“Wood? Something wrong with him, right enough."

“He can't tell you any more than I've told you,” insisted Richard.

“We'll see about that,” said Blake. “Don't let those workmen leave town until I've had a go at them."

“They're in the pub,” returned Pakenham. “They'll keep."

Blake asked, “What was that cousin's name, Lacey?"

“Maurice Applethorpe,” Richard said dully. “He manufactures dog food in Leeds."

“Find him,” Blake ordered Pakenham.

“What? What the hell for? I've quite enough to do here without heading out on a wild goose chase."

“He's a trustee of the Hall, was involved in a court case over Maud Cranbourne's will. I'll explain.” Blake glanced at Richard, chewing his moustache thoughtfully. “Is there anything else?"

Surely, Claire thought, Richard was going to protest—sending Pakenham to interview Applethorpe was like throwing gasoline on a fire. All he said was, “No. I've told you my truth, every last bit of it."

“Right.” Blake started toward the door, pushing Pakenham in front of him. “Now Arnold. This chap Applethorpe wants special handling..."

Kate brought up the rear. “Ah—I'll be outside, Claire."

“You may hear screams,” Claire told her, “but you can ignore them."

Kate offered her a quick, cramped smile and vanished.

A log collapsed in the fire and sprayed Richard's feet with sparks that quickly faded to ashes. He contemplated them, took the long-handled brush from the stand on the hearth, and swept them back into the fireplace.

Stupid, Claire told herself, to think Richard was a steady hand in the midst of confusion and deceit. He was as confused as she was. If more—dishonest was a strong word, wasn't it? She reached for her shoes and socks. They were clammy-cold, making her flesh crawl. “Were you there when your parents made the fake will?"

“No. I was up at Cambridge when Maud died. My father never told me. My mother did, after his death."

“Please tell me he didn't die of a broken heart or fall on his sword or anything like that."

“No, he'd made his decision, he accepted it. It was a heart attack that took him, yes, but then he was in his seventies. Twenty years older than my mother."

“And how does she feel?"

“I'm thinking one reason she emigrated to Canada was to put it all behind her."

“And you came here. Like a moth to the flame."

“Oh aye,” he said softly.

“So why didn't you tell Blake you had nothing to do with the will?"

“Would it matter?"

“No.” Claire tied her shoes into nice, uncomplicated knots.

Richard turned to face her. He tried to smooth down his hair but it popped right back up again, like spikes on an EKG. His eyes seemed as gray as the ashes he'd swept up.

“You've told them your truth, all right,” Claire went on. “Just not the whole truth. What about Alec? What's this choice of his?"

“I can't tell you."

“Can't?"

“All right, I shan't tell you. Try to appreciate my position."

“Between a rock and a hard place? I've noticed, okay? I've got a damned heavy rock and a damned solid hard place of my own. Someone I've just begun to care for, someone I've just learned to trust, uses the word ‘honesty’ at lunch and by supper admits he's been—oh hell, you were lying, yes, and no, it isn't necessarily any of my business, let alone Melinda's. And you know what the really horrible part of all this is? She may never have known anything about anybody, period."

“She didn't tell you a bloody thing, did she?"

“I got the impression she was saving up some good stories to tell me, but no, she didn't tell me anything except the names of the characters."

“Do you think if I'd aired my family's dishonor, then, Melinda would still be alive? Do you think if I'd—I'd prostituted myself she'd still be alive?"

“Do you?"

“I don't know what the hell to think.” Richard scowled, giving Claire a glimpse of his long teeth. “Kate edited out what I said to Alec about you."

“Yeah. She did.” Claire pried herself from the couch and discovered she was capable of standing up, even though the floor seemed to ripple gently beneath her feet. Richard, she thought. The prodigal son. The fatted calf. Once the truth came out about the will he'd be carved into cutlets—and Alec with him.

Her own voice sounded thready. “I'm flattered he'd tell you to choose me, I just don't know what choices are even possible right now."

“Nor I, Claire. Nor I."

She turned toward the door. Neither of them had screamed. Neither of them was angry. They didn't have a relationship, that kiss hadn't meant anything, she hadn't even taken off her glasses—yeah, right. Her jaw felt ice-brittle. Even if she'd had anything else to say she couldn't have spoken.

Maybe he'd call her back. They'd embrace and tell each other everything would be all right. But everything wasn't all right. Only silence followed her down the hall. He was too proud, she thought. Too—all right, too honest. Just her luck she'd fall for the last man on Earth who said “honor” with a straight face. And yet, whom else would she fall for?

Claire went out the door and pulled it shut behind her.

Outside a cold wind was bundling the clouds into the eastern sky. To the west the sky was clear and clean, etched deeply by the blue-gray hills of the horizon. Crows complained in the gardens of the Hall. Kate was leaning against Richard's Rover holding the umbrella. When Claire walked past her she heaved herself up and followed.

Kate was something else again, Claire thought. She not only knew when to keep her mouth shut, she could keep track of an umbrella.

Kate saw Claire to her door, checked out the interior of the flat, and melted away to her own room. Claire changed into dry clothes and made herself a hearty sandwich and a mug of tea. The sandwich tasted like its name, sand, and lay on her stomach as though it was shoring up a broken dam. But the tea was good. She made a second mug and sat down at the desk.

She read through Melinda's letters one more time and stacked them up again feeling vaguely foolish. Her friend had never said in so many words that she had a new lover in the village, just that she had a candidate. Knowing Melinda's tendency to cut to the chase, Claire had assumed the consummation was a done deal. But it'd never happened.

Sure, Richard had been on Melinda's short list. While they were too much alike, though, they were also too different. Melinda's life was constant re-invention. Richard's was constant re-investment. She'd been a clambering, far-ranging, vine. He was a rosebush, his roots sunk deep ... That wasn't the image it should've been, thought Claire, not any more.

By the time Melinda came to Somerstowe she'd already tried investing in roots. She'd married Nigel. And what she'd found were weak, pale, overbred tendrils. Nigel, while smug he'd transplanted an exotic passionflower, found Melinda's refusal to grow correctly up his private garden wall at first perplexing and then offensive. Why, she wouldn't even take his name but remained stubbornly Melinda Varek.

Priscilla Digby had called Richard's mother “Dierdre Callander that was.” Chances were Dierdre hadn't been nearly as given to political statements as Melinda. Or to practical jokes, for that matter.

Then there was Alec. His roots were as deep as Richard's. He was committed to another woman, in an obsessive sort of way ... Claire frowned. Richard was an open book compared to Alec.

That left Elliot as a remote possibility. Melinda had always had a stronger stomach than Claire when it came to men. It was time to find out whether the sleek and sly director had really played a role in Melinda's private production.

Claire tucked the letters away in the bottom drawer, stood up, and stretched. Melinda should've written another play titled, “The Curse of Somerstowe Hall.” Not that the Hall was cursed. It was simply the focus of people and passions past and present—Cecil, Lettice and Elizabeth, Phillip, Julian, and Dierdre, Alec, Melinda, Richard, and all the villagers. With a cameo appearance by Maud Cranbourne.

But all you had to do at a play was keep watching until the final curtain. This tangle was more like a game. And not a logical game like chess, either. A poker game played with tarot cards, where hidden meanings counted for more than either chance or skill and calling another player's bluff could prove fatal. She'd sat down and demanded to be dealt in, Claire told herself. Folding wasn't an option. Getting out without losing her emotional shirt—or her life—might be all she could hope for.

She glanced at the clock. It was almost seven. She ran a comb through her hair, put on fresh lipstick, and headed toward the Hall with Kate.

Gold-edged clouds receded over the eastern horizon. The sun settled gently toward the west, polishing the blue sky to a rosy glow. Alec had promised the weather would clear, hadn't he?

The forecourt had drained nicely and was almost dry. Two constables coiled the last of the cables beneath the bleachers—the ordinary floodlights beneath the eaves gave enough light for rehearsal. The prop manager arranged several chairs and tables at one end of the portico while his assistant placed a piano and a harp at the other. The cover of the fuse box was closed and fixed with a shiny new lock. Inside the kitchen was a crowd scene out of a Spielberg epic.