Evil Angels Among Them (34 page)

‘Seriously?'

‘Do you see me smiling?' Stephen shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, it's no joke. That's just what I need.'

Becca having been at home, it was an early lunch, and Lucy went off straightaway after the washing-up, armed with her sketchbook, to sketch the Lovelidge monuments in the Lady Chapel of the church. The church was empty, which suited her very well; the ubiquitous Harry Gaze must be home tucking into his lunch, she decided.

Before she began, she examined the monuments again, recalling the day when she and David had first arrived in Walston and Harry had given them his narrated tour. She started with the Sir John who had been Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Charles II, remembering Harry's comments about the three wives named Sarah. ‘He must have been wholly fond of that name,' Harry had said. Just like Godfrey Talbot-Shaw and the name Marjorie, Lucy said to herself, smiling ruefully at her own foolishness. She'd been ashamed to tell David of the ridiculous fantasies that her imagination had concocted, all because of that one simple coincidence: sinister imaginings of assumed identities and suspicious deaths. Had the woman known in Walston as Marjorie Talbot-Shaw murdered the real one and taken her name for some fell purpose, or had she just borrowed the name from a tombstone or an obituary to build a new life for herself after some horrible crime? And had Flora Newall, also from Shropshire, discovered the deception and threatened to expose her? Those were the sorts of theories that Lucy had been toying with on the previous day, only to be told that the truth was no more sinister than two wives with the same name. Not even three, like Sir John Lovelidge. At least, she thought, she hadn't disgraced herself by telling David. He often said that she should have been a detective; such a fanciful house of cards scenario would have damaged her credibility for all time.

Lucy moved to the large marble Sir John, with his curly wig and his uncomfortable position, reclining on his side with his head propped on his hand. She read through the list of his virtues, stopping short at the name of his wife: Augusta, daughter of Lord Hollingsworth of the County of Shropshire. She remembered, suddenly, what Enid Bletsoe had said that day, about the monument and various other topics. For a long moment she stared at the inscription, her mind working furiously as various puzzle pieces were reassembled into something that made a terrible sort of sense, albeit with a few pieces missing. Am I being fanciful again? she asked herself severely, but the answer this time seemed quite different.

Back at the Rectory a few minutes later, she went straight to the phone and rang the Bishop's House in Malbury, crossing her fingers that Pat would be in, and that her prodigious network of contacts, if not her astonishing first-hand knowledge, would provide the information that Lucy needed.

She was in luck, at least on the first point; Pat answered straightaway.

‘It's Lucy again,' she said. ‘I hope it's not a bad time for you. I'm not interrupting your lunch, am I?'

‘Just the washing-up,' Pat assured her with a smile that could be heard down the phone. ‘And George can carry on doing that by himself, so talk as long as you like.'

Lucy conjured up the entertaining and all-too-believable picture of the Bishop of Malbury in Pat's homely kitchen, purple sleeves rolled up and elbow-deep in suds. ‘I've got a little question for you, Pat.'

‘Fire away,' said the Bishop's wife.

‘I was wondering whether you know Lord Hollingsworth – you must do.'

Pat laughed. ‘Lord Hollingsworth! I should say so! I don't think it would be possible to live in Shropshire and not know Lord Hollingsworth. The largest landowner in the county, as he never tires of telling people. And with clout, and an ego, to match. Head of the county set, and as such a force to be reckoned with in the cathedral.'

‘And have you ever met his daughter? Charlotte, I believe she's called?' Lucy asked, holding her breath.

‘Quite recently, as a matter of fact,' Pat confirmed. ‘She's away at university, but was home at Hollingsworth Park during the Easter Vac. And she brought her fiancé to Malbury to meet George. They're being married in the cathedral, needless to say – special licence and the lot – and George is preparing them for marriage. It wouldn't do for the daughter of Lord Hollingsworth to be married by anyone but a bishop,' she added in an ironic tone. ‘She would have preferred the Archbishop of Canterbury, but I believe his diary was full. Silly man.'

‘What is she like, then?' Lucy queried.

Pat chuckled. ‘If you want my honest opinion, which is all you're going to get, she's a spoiled brat as well as being a bit of a bluestocking – a rather unfortunate combination. She brought her fiancé to tea here at the Bishop's House, so I had ample opportunity to watch her in action. Rather a prim little miss, but one who is in no doubt that she'll always get her own way. Lord Hollingsworth's
only
daughter,' she amplified. ‘Only child, in fact. The sun rises and sets, as you might imagine.'

‘And the fiancé? What is he like?'

‘Jamie, his name is. He seemed inoffensive enough,' Pat told her. ‘Good-looking, which I suppose is an important consideration for Miss Charlotte, and easily led, which is possibly even more important. She keeps him on a pretty short chain,' she added bluntly. ‘I could see that. He knows better than to step out of line.'

‘He's not county, then?' Lucy asked, knowing the answer.

‘Oh, no – not at all. Rather a nobody, according to Lord H., and an orphan to boot. She met him at Cambridge. I don't think Daddy is particularly enamoured of her choice, but Charlotte wants him and that's all that matters.' Pat paused for breath. ‘I hope that's been of some help. I'm not even going to ask you why you wanted to know.'

‘One day I'll tell you,' Lucy promised. ‘Thanks a million, Pat. You've been a great help.' Thank goodness she'd thought to ask Pat instead of her father, Lucy reflected; John Kingsley could never bring himself to say a bad word about anyone, true or not.

With a sigh of satisfaction, she went searching for David. She found him in the sitting room surrounded by Sunday papers which he was digesting slowly and with indolent enjoyment. He looked up when she came in. ‘I thought you were sketching, love. You haven't been gone long – did you get bored? Or couldn't you bear to be away from me any longer?'

Lucy didn't waste time replying. ‘Where are Becca and Stephen?' she asked.

‘Upstairs,' he winked, ‘if you understand me. I wouldn't disturb them if I were you.'

‘Good. It's you I want to talk to.'

‘I'm all yours,' he grinned. ‘Especially if you want to go upstairs and do likewise.'

‘Listen to me, darling.' For emphasis she crossed the room and plucked the paper from his hands. ‘It's about Flora's murder.'

David sighed. ‘Still on about that, are you?'

‘Yes, I am.' She ignored his put-upon tone. ‘Listen. I've been thinking. Earlier, when we were thinking about who might have killed Flora, we talked about motive and we talked about opportunity.'

‘Yes?'

‘But the one thing we didn't really consider, darling, was the means.'

‘Digoxin,' David supplied. ‘There isn't much doubt about that.'

Lucy's voice was impatient. ‘Yes, darling, but the question is: where did the murderer
get
the digoxin? It's not something you buy over the counter at Boots, you know.'

‘That's true,' he acknowledged. ‘So where does that lead us?'

‘To look for someone with a medical connection, of course,' Lucy stated. ‘Someone with knowledge about and access to drugs. And who fits that requirement?'

‘Dr McNair?' David said facetiously.

Lucy glared at him. ‘Get serious, David! I'm talking about Enid Bletsoe!'

‘Enid?'

‘She worked for Dr McNair for years,' she reminded him. ‘She must have learned a great deal about medicine – and about medications – in that time. And I'm sure she would have run the dispensary as well. So getting the digoxin would have been no problem at all for her.'

‘That actually makes sense,' David admitted with some reluctance, beginning to be interested in spite of himself. He sat up from his semi-reclining position and moved the papers off the sofa to make room for Lucy.

She ignored the sofa, pacing up and down behind it in excitement. ‘And that isn't all, darling. Just think about it: who was it who suggested to Dr McNair that they should test for digitalis? Who mentioned digitalis in the first place?'

‘Enid,' David said slowly. ‘But if she'd done it, why draw attention to it? Why not just let Dr McNair go on thinking that it was a natural heart attack?'

‘As a bluff, of course! No one would ever think she'd done it if she'd suggested it. And she thought that she was throwing suspicion on Gill, as well. She hates Gill – that was just plain spiteful, but it also meant that no one would ever suspect
her
.'

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You really might be on to something, love. But we've come back full circle to motive. Apart from the rather thin motive of getting Gill into deep trouble, why would Enid have wanted to kill Flora? I thought that the two of them were in cahoots – having Bryony taken into care and all that.'

‘This is the part that doesn't quite hang together yet,' Lucy admitted, sitting down at last. ‘But I'll tell you what I've worked out so far. I think that it has something to do with Lord Hollingsworth.'

‘Lord Hollingsworth?' he echoed. ‘You've lost me, Lucy love.'

‘If we go back to the supposition that Flora found out something that the murderer didn't want her to know,' she explained patiently, ‘then that would mean that Enid had a secret. And the person she would be most likely to want to keep a secret
from
is Lord Hollingsworth.'

David's brow wrinkled. ‘It's coming back to me. Her son was marrying Lord Hollingsworth's daughter?'

‘Almost. It's her grandson. Jamie.' Lucy took a deep breath. ‘Don't you remember that day at the church? How she kept wittering on about her grandson, and how he'd had a summer job in Nether Walston – or maybe it was her sister who said that. Anyway, the big thing that she wanted to let everyone know was about Jamie marrying Charlotte Hollingsworth.'

‘So what does that have to do with Flora?'

‘I'm getting to that.' Lucy tried to explain her reasoning. ‘It's the biggest thing that's ever happened to Enid, I have no doubt, and she wouldn't want anything to happen to prevent it.
Anything
,' she emphasised.

‘And what might happen to prevent it?'

‘Well,' she said, ‘Lord Hollingsworth might find out something about her, or more likely about her grandson, that would mean he wasn't a suitable husband for his beloved daughter.' She realised that she was getting ahead of herself. ‘I've just spoken to Pat about Lord Hollingsworth,' she explained. ‘And about his daughter. And the scenario is pretty much as I'd imagined it. He's none too thrilled that his daughter is marrying beneath her, and would probably be delighted if Jamie had somehow blotted his copybook in a way that would dissuade the lovely Charlotte from marrying him. A bit of a bluestocking, Pat said,' Lucy mused thoughtfully. ‘What if young Jamie had a misspent youth, or even some youthful indiscretion, and Flora had found out about it?'

David closed his eyes and pressed against them with his fingertips, remaining silent for a long moment. ‘Ah,' he murmured. ‘Nether Walston.'

‘I know there's no proof . . .' Lucy said uncertainly. ‘And no way to get any either, I suppose.' She sighed. ‘You'll tell me that I've let my imagination run away with me. I suppose I have. Even if it were true . . .'

‘Good Lord,' David said, almost to himself. His eyes flew open and his voice cut across hers, suddenly decisive. ‘Leave it to me,' he stated, getting to his feet. ‘Give me a couple of hours.'

* * *

David hadn't allowed her to go with him, so to pass the time until his return and to keep out of Becca and Stephen's way, Lucy went back to the church to pursue her aborted plan to sketch the monuments. There was still no sign of Harry, to her relief. She settled down on a chair in the chapel and quickly became engrossed in her labours, dashing off several quick charcoal sketches.

After a while Lucy became aware that she was not alone, sensing a quiet presence behind her. She turned to find Roger Staines looking over her shoulder.

‘Please, don't let me disturb you,' he said. ‘Carry on. I just couldn't resist looking.'

Embarrassed, Lucy shielded her sketch from view. ‘It's not worth looking at,' she demurred. ‘Charcoal isn't really my medium. It was just an experiment, really, because I found the monuments so fascinating.'

‘But it's marvellous!' the former churchwarden enthused. ‘Have you done any others?'

She reluctantly showed him her sketchbook. ‘They're just impressionistic sketches, really,' she apologised. ‘Nothing polished.'

‘But that's what's so good about them,' Roger Staines stated. ‘They capture the spirit perfectly without being overworked or twee.'

Lucy smiled. ‘Well, I'm pleased that you like them.'

‘Honestly, I think they're wonderful.' He paused, deep in thought for a moment, tapping his forehead with his finger. ‘You know about my book, I expect,' he said at last. ‘My history of the village and the church and the Lovelidge family. I think that a set of your sketches would be just the thing to illustrate the book.'

‘Oh, I don't know.' Lucy shook her head modestly.

‘Do you mind if I watch you for a bit?' he asked.

‘If you like,' Lucy agreed, turning over a fresh page.