Memory and Desire (29 page)

“It's no fun being beset with danger
at
home."

“Don't you feel that a comforting human touch is helpful in such moments of loneliness and fear?"

Don't be obvious or anything, Claire groaned silently. She asked, “I suppose Melinda wanted a comforting human touch, after her divorce and all?"

“Ah...” he waffled.

He was trying to figure out which ploy was most likely to work, Claire told herself. She tried dangling some bait. Or an outright lie, take your pick. “Melinda cut quite a figure, didn't she? I always felt I was second best to her. The ragpicker's daughter getting the leftovers."

“Ah yes, quite. Melinda was a beautiful girl, mind you, but I can't say—well, not to speak ill of the dead..."

His knee was pressing hers beneath the table. Claire inched away. She sipped again. Her fingertips were sticky from the spilled sherry. She didn't dare lick them, not with Elliot undressing her with his eyes. Although so far he hadn't gotten past her sweater.

“Actually, Claire, Melinda and I were only friends. Nothing physical. She was well and truly a brilliant girl, very smart, no doubt about it. But every now and then a man is fortunate enough to meet someone special, someone who eclipses everyone else. Whilst Melinda and I had a jolly time, I've only truly fancied scholarly ladies like you."

Yeah, Claire said to herself, and right after I fall for that line I'm going to buy a bridge in Brooklyn. Cut to the chase, already. “You told me you and Melinda had an affair."

A smile chased a shrug across Elliot's face. “Well, I shouldn't want her no doubt lovely ghost to think I found her physical shell unattractive."

So Richard turned down Melinda, Melinda turned down Elliot, Elliot broke up with Diana—it would've been a French sex farce if it wasn't ultimately a tragedy. The nape of Claire's neck contracted. She glanced around to see Diana, her elbows propped on the bar, staring at her. Resentfully? No, Diana was smiling acidly, as though watching Elliot at work on someone else was the joke of the day.

Claire shoved her glass away. Another drink, another question of motive, another hidden emotion and she'd gag. “Thank you, Elliot, but it's been a long day and I'm exhausted."

Funny, she'd never noticed how hard Elliot's watery blue eyes were. They looked beady as a snake's. Was he going to slither away now or strike? “Going back to your cold and lonely bed?” he asked.

“Yes."

“Wouldn't you rather stop at my cottage? I have some lovely antiques, including a bedroom suite that once belonged to Lord Byron. Surely, as a lover of literature..."

“No, thank you."

“Then I'll walk you to you flat, shall I?"

“I can get there, thanks anyway,” Claire said. She shoved back her chair.

Elliot tried out several different expressions, probably debating whether to switch from the world-weary sophisticate routine to a pathetic little boy number. Even when he settled on a brave smile he couldn't keep that malicious humor—if you could call it humor—out of his face. No, Claire told herself, he wasn't the comic relief in this production any more than he was the village idiot.

Did he have an ulterior motive for trying to get her alone? It would be almost as easy to underestimate Elliot as to underestimate Fred, although for very different reasons. Even though, like Fred—like Rob or Diana, for that matter—Elliot had an alibi for Melinda's murder, that didn't mean he couldn't be playing the pivotal role of blackmailer.

With a shudder of revulsion that came close to fear, Claire stood up. “Good night, Elliot. Thank you for the sherry."

Kate swallowed her lemonade and sidled out the door. Claire waved at Giles, who stared blankly at her, and spurted onto the street before anyone, suspect or otherwise, could follow her.

Wishing Kate a good night, Claire went back to her cold and lonely bed.

Claire inspected the old needlework canvas thoroughly, first with her eyes and then with her magnifying glass. She turned it over on its frame and examined its backside, stitch by stitch. Very professional job, if she did say so herself. Even the linen border was now sturdy enough to hold the weight of the canvas. At least she could do one thing right.

She signed and dated the chart and turned to Kate. “Well done."

“Thank you,” Kate replied. “Didn't know I had it in me."

Together they pried out the staples holding the canvas to the frame, rolled it up, and carried it downstairs to the storeroom. Kate insisted on stepping inside first—just in case, Claire assumed, the killer had left a boa constrictor draped over the doorway.

But the room was empty, faintly musty, and cold. The Morris canvas that had lured Claire into the electrified bleachers yesterday afternoon now lay rolled guilelessly on its shelf. She and Kate boosted the Venus and Adonis canvas up beside it. “I guess I'd better find Richard and tell him another mission is accomplished,” Claire said, not sure whether she wanted to find Richard or not. When he'd come to inspect the canvas his “Good morning” had been cool and correct, with an aftertaste of ashes. Not that Claire's had been any less wary.

“Right.” Kate closed the door of the storeroom.

They found Richard in the chapel scrutinizing a gilded cherub. Janet and Susan stood nearby holding cans of varnish and glue like nurses ready to hand a surgeon his scalpels. Claire smiled at her fellow Americans. Susan, all sturdy no-nonsense as usual, smiled back. Janet's mouth was pursed as though she'd been sucking on a lemon, and managed a grimace.

“Brilliant,” Richard pronounced. “Very nicely done indeed. Did you know that before 1770 artisans would mix gold dust with honey to make it stick?"

“You don't have very aggressive ants here, do you?” returned Susan.

“No work this afternoon,” Richard went on with a ghost of a smile. “The Play opens tonight. Have a rest, the both of you."

“Come on,” Susan said to the younger woman, “let's have some of that curried tomato soup at the tearoom."

With a tight shrug, Janet fell into step with her.

Richard turned to Claire. “You've finished the canvaswork, then?"

“Yes. We put it in the storeroom. If you'd like to look it over..."

“No need."

They stood awkwardly on either side of the cherub's plump nudity. A chill draft eddied through the chapel. Kate looked at her watch. “Don't forget, DCI Blake's after having a word in the garden."

Side by side Richard and Claire followed Kate from the chapel through the entrance hall, carefully not making contact in the doorways. Outside the sun was shining so brightly Claire blinked. The sky was a deep cerulean blue, the lawn and the trees a rich green, the stone of the Hall a warm dark gold. The scents of both growth and decay hung on the warm air. There must be a dome of high pressure parked right over Somerstowe. Once again The Play was having beautiful weather.

Kate led her charges past the forecourt, where the workmen were putting the finishing touches on the bleachers and the lights—and where today a uniformed constable guarded the fuse box—to a low wall edging a gravel walk.

Blake sat on the wall, his jacket and tie draped over the stone beside him, his shirtsleeves rolled up, wiping his glasses with a tissue. His scalp reflected the sunshine like a lighthouse warning ships off a rocky coast. Claire suppressed a smile. He was acting like it was hot when it was barely over eighty.

“Good morning,” Blake said. “Or afternoon, as the case may be. This should take only a few minutes, you'll still have your lunch."

“No problem.” Claire sat down beside him. Richard took his other side. Kate kept on walking—police? me?—and settled in the shade of a tree.

A rotund figure strutted toward them from the gate. Pakenham, Claire noted, was well on his way to a sunburn. Another couple of hours outside and he'd be roasted to a turn, ready for an apple in his mouth and a garnished platter. “We can start now,” he said, propping one polished shoe on the wall so he could address them all from above.

Expressionlessly, Blake handed Claire a printed sheet of paper. “This is the timetable for yesterday afternoon. Is it accurate?"

She scanned it. Four o'clock, four-thirty, five—it was all neatly organized, with the names of a dozen villagers and volunteers spotted at intervals down the page. “If this is accurate, the Morris canvas rolled out of the storeroom and climbed up on the bleachers all by itself."

“In other words, someone is lying,” said Pakenham. “I'm not going to faint in amazement at that."

Richard leaned over to read the paper himself. “The usual suspects, I see. Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all."

“We're taking some possibilities more seriously than others,” said Blake.

“Namely,” Pakenham said, “the two remaining suspects who have no alibi for the time of Melinda's murder. Who were both in and out of the Hall all yesterday afternoon. Lacey and Wood."

Richard looked up at him with a glance like a spear-thrust. “What're you on about now?"

“A bit of a coincidence, isn't it, that someone lures Claire into a trap the very same day she tells Wood she's mending that bit of cloth from the attic room. The very same day she and Shelton overhear a positively damning conversation. Maybe the trap was set for Shelton as well, eh?"

Blake didn't say anything. Richard rolled his eyes. “Get a grip, man."

Claire opened her mouth to say, “Richard's not a suspect,” and closed it without speaking. An ice cube seemed to slide down her esophagus and plop into her stomach. As far as Pakenham was concerned, Richard
was
a suspect. So he hadn't left the threatening letter on Claire's desk. Alec could have. No one would faint in amazement if they turned out be working together.

And yet why would they be working against her? She'd insisted over and over again that Melinda hadn't told her anything. While revenge for stirring it all up would make a motive, it was Alec who found Melinda's body, and Richard had sure put himself in harm's way with his confessions....

The ice cube melted. As usual, Pakenham was building a house out of straw and parking his ego inside. If he wanted to indulge in conspiracy theories, there were better candidates than Alec and Richard—Elliot, Diana, Rob, Janet, in whatever unholy combination.

Richard was innocent. Period. As for Alec—well, Richard admitted he was covering for him, but he wouldn't cover for a murder. If Melinda had murdered someone, Claire would've been devastated, but she wouldn't have covered for her.

If I'm going to trust Richard, she thought, then I'm going to trust him. She looked around at him and saw he was looking at her, frowning slightly, probably thinking the same thing she was—what a fine mess they'd gotten each other into.

Whether Blake put much faith in Pakenham's house of straw Claire couldn't say. Whatever, he changed the subject. “How did you get on with Applethorpe?"

“It was Applethorpe's morning for golf. Had to follow him about the course—surprised he didn't have me caddying for him, pompous twit."

Takes one to know one, thought Claire.

“I got him talking about the dispute over the will,” Pakenham continued.

“How much did you tell him?” demanded Richard.

“I handed him some flannel about covering all the Hall's financial angles. Did you think I'd blurt out your tatty little secret? You don't broadcast one of your best clues, do you now?"

Richard glared up at Pakenham from under his brows, unblinking. Claire hoped the sergeant would shrivel into a pork rind on the spot. He did take his foot off the wall and retreat a step or two. Blake shook his head, very subtly, as though reminding himself that the sergeant was his cross to bear.

Pakenham stuck out his chin and his chest. “Applethorpe said he was simply following accepted procedure when he challenged the will. He had no specific reason to suspect anything wrong. He thinks the Laceys more or less brainwashed old Maud, his great-aunt, into leaving the Hall to the Trust. He resents it, but he realizes he can do eff-all about it."

Richard dropped his eyes to his clasped hands.

“Applethorpe admits to having been in Somerstowe on numerous occasions. Maud's funeral. One of Trevor Digby's genealogical lectures. The Play twice—to see if he wanted to back one of Moncrief's West End shows. He wasn't here on the night of the murder though. He was at an International Pet Food Producers function in Brighton. I didn't see any reason to question his mates about it and establish an alibi."

“No,” agreed Blake. “If Applethorpe—or any of the Cranbournes, for that matter—thought Miss Varek had proof the will was a forgery, he'd throw himself in front of a lorry to keep her alive, wouldn't he? He wouldn't murder her."

“So our murderer is someone who didn't want any such proof to come out. QED.” Pakenham looked down at Richard's bowed head, his lip curled in a self-satisfied sneer. “I suggest we have another go at the local plod."

At Alec, Claire translated.

“He claims he never laid a hand on Melinda, certainly never kissed her. That means either he or Harlow is lying. Isn't it obvious which one?"

“Not a bit of it,” said Richard. “It'd be a hell of a lot easier for Alec to tell you he did kiss her. Just as it'd be easier to tell you his blackmail letter was about The Play. He gave you an honest answer."

Pakenham laughed. Blake's brows tightened, some skein of thought apparently raveling and knitting itself together again.

All of Alec's answers were probably honest, Claire told herself. They just didn't go far enough. A good thing the police weren't allowed to use torture any more—not that that guaranteed honesty. The authorities of 1666, under Cecil's supervision, had tortured Elizabeth. Unlike other judicial victims, though, she'd never “confessed” to making a pact with the devil but had maintained her innocence to the end.

The windows of the Hall glittered, catching the light like laughing eyes. Claire thought of Elizabeth I, who though raddled with age still commanded the hearts of young gallants—and who still sent them to die for her ... There was Alec himself, opening a window in the upper great chamber and leaning pensively on the sill.

“Blowing the gaff about The Play might have earned Miss Varek a few pounds from a newspaper,” said Blake. “Blowing it about the will might have earned her a reward from the Cranbournes."