The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks (22 page)

'I'm sure that's an extremely perspicacious analysis, Miss Agatha,' Wilkins said.

'Sounds spot on to me,' said Gerry. 'And surely the important thing is not what Clara knew or didn't know, but what somebody
feared
she knew.' She saw all eyes on her and smiled a little sheepishly. 'Sorry, Mr Wilkins. There I go again.'

'No, you're quite right, Lady Geraldine. Which is why, if we don't clear it up quickly, it could take weeks - because it will be necessary to investigate each of the suspects exhaustively to try and discover if any of them do have a really big and clanking skeleton in their cupboard.'

'Well, just as long as you do get him,' Agatha said. 'I may not have been at all close to my stepmother, but that doesn't mean I want to see the swine who held a pillow over her face escape justice, especially if he — or she — did it to cover up something shady in their own life.'

'Well, I'll certainly do my best, miss. Now, there is just one more question, before we leave. Do either of you know of a Miss Dora Lethbridge?'

As one, they nodded. Agatha said: 'She was our stepmother's mother - our stepgrandmother, I suppose you'd call her.'

'We never knew her,' Dorothy added. 'She died before our stepmother married Daddy.'

'I see. The answer so near at hand all the time. Was Lethbridge her maiden or married name?'

'Both,' said Agatha. 'Apparently she married a second cousin or something, also called Lethbridge.'

'You don't happen to know the date of her death, do you?'

They both shook their heads.

'Or her birthday?'

The reaction was the same. 'What's your interest in her, Chief Inspector?' Agatha asked.

'It's this, Miss Agatha.' Wilkins produced a wad of papers from his inside pocket, ruffled through them and handed a card to Agatha. 'That was found in your stepmother's bedroom. I was wondering if she was planning to insert it in one of those In Memoriam columns some papers carry. People mark the anniversary of someone's death, or their birthday. If her mother was born or died this month, or next, it would be an indication that might be what she was planning.'

Agatha stared at the card. 'I don't remember her ever doing anything like that, do you, Dorry?'

'No. But that's not to say she never did. I never read through those columns, so I wouldn't have seen it, if she had.'

'And I suppose it's possible - if there was a particularly important anniversary coming up. Would it have been Dora's hundredth birthday soon?'

'She couldn't have been that old.'

'Fiftieth anniversary of her death? No, that doesn't seem right, either. Anyway, why would she have been writing it here? Though I suppose it might have just occurred to her, and it was something to do. She must have been pretty bored, staying in her room alone all that time.'

Dorothy held out her hand. 'Give it me, a moment.'

Agatha did so and Dorothy studied it closely. 'I don't think this is Mother's writing.'

'Are you sure, miss?' Wilkins asked.

'Not absolutely. It's difficult when something's all in capitals. But she always wrote an 'E' with a very short middle bar. There are' - she counted - 'three 'Es' here, and in each of them all the bars are the same length. See?'

She passed the card back. Agatha nodded. 'Yes, I see. But I never studied her writing all that closely, so I wouldn't know.' She returned it to Wilkins. 'I'm sure we could find out the dates Dora was born and died, if we went through Mother's papers.'

'Maybe we'll have to ask you to do that. But it's probably of no importance. It's just one of those little points one likes to clear up.' He got to his feet.

'You said you're leaving us now, Mr Wilkins?' the Countess asked.

'Only briefly, my lady. The sergeant and I are just going to slip down to the village and get a bite to eat at the pub.'

'Oh, please stay and have something here.'

'Oh, that's very kind. An offer I didn't expect.'

'I don't suppose you'll want to sit down with all the suspects - might be somewhat embarrassing. But if you don't mind lunching in the breakfast-room . . .'

'I think I can speak on behalf of Sergeant Leather when I say that will cause us no qualms at all, my lady.'

* * *

'He's been in his study an hour now,' said the Countess to Gerry later, 'supposedly looking over the accounts. But he only did it a week or so ago. And now with a murder investigation going on here!' She stood up. 'I've got to know what he's up to.'

'What are you going to do?' Gerry asked.

'Just walk straight in as though I didn't know he was in there. Tell him I was looking for some writing paper or envelopes, or something.'

'He might have locked himself in.'

'I hope not. He's never done that. It would mean he wants to keep whatever he's doing a secret.'

Lady Burford left the room and marched resolutely to her husband's study. Outside, she paused and listened. All was silent within. She took a deep breath, turned the knob, threw open the door and marched into the room.

The Earl, sitting at his desk, spun round with a start and stared at her, a positively guilty expression on his face.

'Oh, George, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were still here. Do you have any envelopes? I seem to have run . . .' Her voice tailed off as she took in the contents of the desk. Two half- empty bottles of ink, one blue, one red, stood each side of a small bowl, which contained a purplish liquid.

With a great effort of will, the Countess suppressed any sign of surprise. 'What are you doing?' she asked casually.

'Doing? Oh, nothin' much. Just been makin' some purple ink. Mixed red and blue.'

'I see. Any particular reason?'

'Not really. Just thought it would be a change. Gets a bit boring, always using blue for everything.'

'I suppose it does. But couldn't you have bought a bottle?'

'Not likely to have any in the village shop. Would have meant sendin' someone into Westchester.'

'Was it so important to have some now?'

'No, no. But had the red ink. So thought, might as well, you know.'

'Of course.' The Countess was running her eyes rapidly over the other things on the desk.

'What was it you wanted? Oh yes, envelopes.' The Earl opened a drawer, withdrew half a dozen envelopes and handed them to her. 'That enough?'

'Oh yes, plenty, thank you. I'll, er, leave you to it, then. Try not to spill any.'

'No, I'll be careful.'

The Countess went out.

* * *

'Purple ink,' said Gerry. 'It's the sort of thing he'd usually think was rather vulgar.'

'Well, of course, it is. But that's the least of my worries. There was something else extremely odd.'

'What?'

'A thin strip of paper, with writing on it - big block capitals.'

'Saying what?'

'I couldn't tell. It was backwards.'

'Backwards?'

'Yes. Mirror writing. I didn't have time to work it out. For a moment I thought it was Russian, or some other language, but then I did recognise the word 'all' - 'LLA,' with the 'Ls' the wrong way round.'

'Anything else?'

'Not really. Well, there was a candle on the desk, which was a little unusual.'

'But why should he want it there at the same time as he was mixing the ink?'

The Countess shook her head helplessly.

'Well, all we can do is just keep an eye on him.'

'One of us can't always be with him, not with all these guests here.'

'Talking of guests, I think I'll enlist Tommy's help.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, in spite of all outward appearances to the contrary, I believe he might be quite a reliable sort of cove. And as he knows something about it already, I think to take him into our confidence to a certain extent, and ask him to help keep an unobtrusive eye on Daddy, might make him even less inclined to gossip about either the nettles or anything else he may notice that's odd.'

'You know him better than I do, so I'll leave it to you. But it's true I knew a number of young men like Tommy before the war. Quite vacuous on the surface. But a lot of them ended up leading battalions and winning medals.'

Chapter Thirty

Wilkins leaned back in his chair, with a sigh. 'Well, that was very nice.'

He and Leather had just finished lunch, which had consisted of cold tongue, salad and new potatoes, with cold apple tart and cream for sweet. 'Told you, didn't I?'

Leather, who had been hoping for something with chips and tomato ketchup, finished up his coffee. 'Yes, it was OK. Could have done with a pint of bitter, though. So, what do we do now?'

'Well, we've finished here for the moment. Have to go and check up on a lot of things, but can't leave straight away, or it'll look as if we just hung on to get a free lunch.'

'Which, of course, we didn't.'

'What I really need to do is just sit and think. There never seems to be the time.'

At that moment, Gerry entered. 'Your HQ just phoned again, Mr Wilkins. I took it. They said it wasn't important to speak to you, but to warn you that the early edition of the London
Evening News
is splashing the murder all over its front page. So we can expect swarms of reporters outside the gates very soon, I suppose. Heaven knows how they found out so quickly.'

'Oh, I think I can guess, Lady Geraldine. I think you can, too, if you put your mind to it.'

She furrowed her brow. 'I don't think . . .'

'Your own personal mystery,' Wilkins prompted.

She gave a start. 'The early morning phone call! But who could it have been?'

'You should be able to work that out, too, if you're the detective I think you are.'

Light dawned. 'Of course! Right, I'm going to ask her, straight out. She's on the terrace, I believe.'

'I'll be right behind you, Lady Geraldine.'

* * *

Lord Burford dipped the paint brush in the purple ink and ran it down the length of the candle. Most of it immediately ran off, back into the bowl. 'Dammit,' said the Earl. It was being harder than he'd anticipated. The ink did not stick easily to the wax. After a couple more attempts, he took the candle by the wick, lowered it into the bowl and twirled it around before drawing it out. This time some ink at least stayed in place. He held it suspended over the bowl, spinning it round and blowing on it gently, until it had dried, then lowered it back into the ink and repeated the procedure. It took quite a long time, but eventually he laid the candle down on the desk and surveyed it proudly. Definitely a purple candle. Just what he'd wanted.

Then a little doubt began to niggle. It wasn't
really
a purple candle: just a white candle, inked to look purple. Suppose they could tell the difference? Oh, well, it couldn't be helped. It would have to do for now. He could always get a real purple candle later on. He took the strip of paper, with the mirror writing, wound it round the candle and held it in place with a small rubber band.

One more job nearly completed. Now he'd better knock off for a while and go and see how Wilkins was getting on.

* * *

'All right,' Stella said. 'It was me. I called a guy I know on the
News
early this morning. It was the chance of a huge scoop. But where's the harm? You couldn't have kept the lid on this much longer. Today or tomorrow you'd have had to issue a press statement. I just got in first by a few hours. And I didn't reveal the names of any of the guests, only that several well-known people were staying here. I didn't even give the name of the victim. I simply said a woman had been found dead, believed to have been suffocated, that the police were treating it as a case of homicide and that Detective Chief Inspector Wilkins of the Westshire police department was in charge of the investigation. Oh, and I did mention that a lot of cufflinks had been found scattered round the body. I thought that would give it a bizarre touch to hang the story on. If you'd asked us to keep quiet about it, I would have. But you didn't.'

'I take your point, Miss Simmons,' Wilkins said. 'I should have done so. But, as you say, no real harm done, I suppose. No more phone calls, or telegrams, though, OK?'

'Understood, Mr Wilkins.'

He made his way back indoors, leaving Stella and Gerry alone. 'Gerry, I'm sorry,' Stella said. 'But I don't think I've done anything to embarrass you or your parents. And look at it from my angle. I'm desperately trying to break into mainstream journalism. I've given the
News
an exclusive and several hours' lead over the
Standard and the Star
. They'll be cock-a-hoop. It's bound to put me in good with them. Now honestly, in my shoes, wouldn't you have done the same?'

Gerry, who was incapable of staying angry or feeling resentment for long, hesitated for a second, then smiled. 'Probably.'

'Oh, thanks for taking it like that. It's swell of you. I know there'll be reporters arriving. But it's not like a town house. They won't be able to get past the gates. So they won't bother anybody. Tell me, you've been helping the cops, I know: do you have any ideas yet as to who might have done it?'

'Nothing concrete. There is something at the back of my mind - something somebody said, or didn't say, or did, or didn't do - that at the time momentarily made me think "That's odd." But for the life of me I can't remember now what it was.'

'You don't think it could have been Timothy, do you?'

'It
could
have been. Theoretically, it could have been practically anybody.'

'But he seems such a non-violent type.' She looked thoughtful. 'Of course, there was the way he threw Gregory.'

'Yes, those quiet, repressed people can sometimes snap, if they're provoked.'

'You think he's repressed? You know, I think he's just shy and - outside the courtroom - rather unsure of himself.'

'You may be right. I haven't seen a lot of him.'

'Things aren't easy between him and Penny, apparently. She thinks he's too strict. 'No secret relations are strained,' as he put it. And that's probably an understatement. So one can understand it if he's a bit on edge.'