Murder Among Us (15 page)

Maud threw up her head and jibbed. Emma struggled to pull her forward. Maud pulled back, snorting. Emma switched off the torch and tucked it into her belt to leave both hands free for the battle. She made a superhuman effort and managed to drag the donkey into the cramped, dark, smelly interior.

The tarpaulin over the door fell down abruptly with a slapping sound, making her jump and cutting off any faint light from outside so that they were in pitch darkness. The stench in here was far worse than Emma had remembered, airless and stale, foul and oppressive at the same time. She began to fear she wouldn't be able to stick it. And then she heard something move in the recess by the entry.

She thought at first it was Maud, stamping a hoof. But pressed against the donkey, she realised that the animal stood stock still. Whatever it was, it moved again. Her heart gave a sickening jolt and her blood seemed to coagulate in her veins. Another animal? Emma ran desperately through a list of comforting possibilities. A badger or fofc? Unlikely. They were outside in the undergrowth. A bird which had flown in here and become trapped? Bats? She hated bats. But one thing was sure. She and Maud were not alone in the bothy.

Emma's fingers scrabbled at her waist for her torch and as they did, whatever it was began to move in earnest, moving towards her. She could smell it, fusty

and sour, sense its warmth and most terrifying of all, bear its hoarse, laboured breathing. Maud snorted a warning, throwing up her hammer head and taking a step forward as if to place her solid body between Emma and It.

Emma's trembling fingertips touched the metal of the torch. She struggled to drag it from her belt and at the same time find the button to switch it on.

But before she could, a hand came out of the darkness and took hold of her wrist.

Ten

Markby had had a tiring day. Whilst Pearce had been interviewing Deirdre, he had obtained a copy of the film shot by the TV company and now he was running it through.

Pearce came back in the middle of it and joined in enthusiastically. As intimated to Deirdre, the sergeant hadn't seen Hope's streak before and regretted missing it. Nevertheless he was well trained enough to keep most of his attention on the background activity on the film. Well, nearly all of it.

Back and forth they went over the event. Markby rubbed a hand over his eyes and squinted at the screen. He mumbled, "Go on!"

To an accompanying soft whirring the film moved onward. Bodies leapt and jostled and one, Hope Mapple in the buff, ran. Spectacular as the sight was, however, she was not the one the two policemen sought on the short length of film obtained from the TV company.

"Go on!" Markby ordered again. "No, wait! Back, no that's too far—yes, there!"

He leaned forward and peered intently at the screen again. Pearce came forward and pointed at the face in the crowd close behind Hope. "You're right, sir. There she is, Zoe Foster!"

Markby nodded. "Okay, you can switch that thing off now. I would say that lets Zoe out. She followed the crowd after Hope, as she told us, and could only have arrived in the cellar after the rest of us. She retreated to the far bay and found the body, just as she said. She didn't have time to kill Ellen."

"It was a quick kill," said Pearce doubtfully. "If Ellen was waiting ..."

"Zoe wouldn't kill her with all those potential witnesses in the cellar! Ellen was dead when we all raced down there after our streaker and Zoe found her body. However, I have to say I'm rather glad she was caught on the film like that. It gave me a bit of a shock when she started babbling about Ellen's will. I wouldn't have thought her a likely killer, but she does care about those old nags and people have killed for lesser reasons. So a nice filmed alibi is helpful."

"Gave young Harding a shock too, by all accounts!" said Pearce with a grin.

"Irritating youth! Oh well, time to go home!" Markby hauled himself up with a sigh. "Or rather, you can go home. I've arranged to go and see Grimsby." He glanced at his wristwatch. "I'm to meet him at his house at six-forty-five sharp, he informs me. He's leaving that bookshop of his just after six. That, he also informs me, is solely on my account. Normally he stays there till six-thirty tidying up."

"Couldn't you have called on him there?" Pearce asked.

"He wasn't keen on that idea. The impression I gained was that he thinks a police inspector coming into his shop might lower the tone of the place. Perhaps he's worried I mightn't wipe my police boots or I'd ask in a loud voice if he stocks porn. He hasn't yet addressed me as 'officer,' but I suspect that any moment he will."

"Daft blighter," said Pearce.

"A member of the public, Pearce, and a pillar of the Chamber of Commerce. Handle with care. I don't mind going to his house. In fact, I'd rather see him on his own ground. You can tell a lot about a person from the contents of his bookcase and the pattern of his carpet. However, between you and me, I have just about had enough of the Society for the Preservation of Historic Bamford for one day. When I've seen

Grimsby I shall have spoken with its entire surviving committee within a twelve-hour period and that's enough for anyone!"

Markby heaved an exasperated sigh. "When I was young we used to gather round pub pianos and sing a musical version of Longfellow's 'Excelsior' with appropriate gestures and a few inappropriate ones. It begins, if you recall, The shades of night were falling fast' and goes on about a youth appearing in an alpine village bearing a 'banner with a strange device.' Well, Hope Mapple's banner bore a strange device all right and Eric's garden is probably the nearest we've got to an alpine village round here, but everything else is as obscure as the purpose of that chap in the poem."

"What happened to him, the bloke in the poem?"

"He got buried in a snowdrift, banner and all. He was lucky. I've got to struggle on with the committee of the historical society. By the way, did you interview that chambermaid?"

"Deirdre," said Pearce, rolling his eyes. "I'd take anything Deirdre has to say about Hope Mapple with a pinch of salt." He told Markby about the gift card on the chocolate box.

"Kindest regards, Charles!" repeated Markby slowly. "So within the committee, Hope was allied with Charles Grimsby and Zoe was allied with Robin Harding, and that left Ellen Bryant out on her own. I wonder if that's significant. Time will tell. Goodnight, off you go."

Grimsby lived in semi-detached respectability with a row of geraniums in pots on his parlour windowsill, volumes of local history and Dickens in his bookcase, three china geese flying up the wall and a faded carpet patterned with swirls on the floor. The whole room dated from the 1930s. There was even a Marconi wireless set in a polished case, pleated satin sofa cushions and em-

broidered chairback protectors depicting crinolined ladies in flower gardens.

Markby was offered and accepted an exceedingly small glass of Cyprus sherry and sat uncomfortably trying not to crush the satin cushions or disarrange the flower ladies. It was fairly clear to him that his host lived in the home created by his parents more than fifty years before and had neither taken anything from it nor added anything to it except possibly a few of the books.

"I really don't see how I can help you, ah, Chief Inspector," said Grimsby when hospitability had been dispensed. He peered at Markby as if reassuring himself that this really was a chief inspector of suitable demeanour and not some impostor.

'Tm trying to find out as much as I can about Mrs. Bryant."

Grimsby looked huffy. 'Tm sure I can't tell you anything!"

"Then tell me about the historical society. Who formed it? Did Ellen belong to it for a long time?"

"We formed ourselves," said Grimsby reproachfully. "Six years ago. Hope and I were original members together with others who for one reason or another fell by the wayside. Ellen joined us about three years ago. I had met her before in connection with the Chamber of Commerce but I had no close acquaintance with her. I really must stress that. Robin Harding joined us about a year ago and little Zoe only recently. I have to say I suspect that young lady is less interested in history than in her horses. You know Schuhmacher threatens to evict her and her animals, I suppose? Though not an animal lover myself, I have every sympathy as I feel it's typical of the man's high-handed way. I called on him in London to discuss our objections to his plans. I thought he would at least be civil to a fellow businessman. But he was extremely offensive."

"Yes I know—about the horses, that is. But if you and Hope were friends—"

"Colleagues!" corrected Grimsby stiffly.

"But friends too, surely, after six years on the same committee?"

"I admit I did get along well with Hope," Grimsby conceded grudgingly. His tone sharpened. "Did until she saw fit to stage that ridiculous demonstration. I have to say my view of Hope changed."

In more ways than one, Markby found his alter ego whispering.

"I cannot afford to be made to look either foolish or disorderly to the Chamber of Commerce! Neither could Mrs. Bryant. That, I imagine, was why she left the scene before Hope's exhibition. Why she went down to the cellars I can't even guess."

"But until that Saturday you and Hope were friendly," Markby persevered. "The young people, Robin and Zoe, were drawn together—" Grimsby gave him a slightly furtive look. "So Ellen had no ally on the committee..."

Grimsby had begun to look uncomfortable. ' * We were a committee. Committees are supposed to work together. The members do not, Chief Inspector, form alliances!"

"In my experiences of committees, that's very often exactly what happens."

"I have not your experience of committees, Chief Inspector. May I offer you another sherry?"

This ought to have sounded like an invitation to linger and chat but in fact it sounded quite the reverse. Markby took the hint. He rose to his feet. "I really am anxious to find out about Ellen's friends and acquaintances, Mr. Grimsby. So anything you can remember, just give me a call."

"I doubt there will be anything!" said Grimsby, opening the door for his visitor. "Goodnight, Chief Inspector!"

Contrary to his habit, Markby stopped off on his way home for a pint. This murder was beginning increasingly to look like one of those which were resolved at the

expense of unpleasantness throughout the local community as people's private lives were exposed to public scrutiny. Did Grimsby have a secret behind his lace curtains? Did Hope Mapple? Did Eric? Had Hope, more by chance than by any process of deduction, hit the nail on the head when she claimed Ellen had discovered something odd at Springwood Hall 9

The mysterious money in the accounts of the craft-work shop begged explanation, but what? Eric was a wealthy man and might have attracted the attentions of a greedy and unscrupulous person in possession of some awkward information. But perhaps the whole idea of blackmail w ? as wrong. Ellen might have been a gambler and won the whole lot on the ponies. She might have been one of those people who saved their junk and took it to carboot sales; something Markby had been informed was quite profitable. Or she might have sold something more profitable still and in far greater secrecy. An attractive woman, Ellen. Why not a little discreet upmarket whoring? Had Ellen then been the victim of blackmail and not its instigator? Her accounts showed no large sums of money withdrawn. But there were forms of payment other than cash.

"Funny old job you've got!" Robin Harding had said to him, quite rightly. Funny old job, indeed. Suddenly the urge to go to McVeigh and ask to be taken off the case became overwhelming. He no longer wanted to know any more about Ellen, to ask anyone any more questions or deal with people who manifestly didn't want to talk to him and regarded his arrival as an unwarranted intrusion. He wanted to go home.

But home, when he got there, was an empty 7 place. The resounding echo of the front door as it shut behind him, the rustle of uncollected post under his feet, the unwashed breakfast cup and plate still where he'd left them on the draining board in the kitchen, all these things added to his sense of isolation.

He wished very much that Meredith were there. He

wondered what she did in London when not at work. He wondered about her friends. He wondered about them quite a lot and especially if there were any particular person. She hadn't said so. He fancied she would tell him if she met anyone else, anyone special. But why should she? She was not accountable to him for what she did nor he to her. But he did wonder, all the same.

Markby cooked up a packet of fish fingers and ate them with bread and butter for his supper. Paul was always telling him how to make quick, nutritional and eye-pleasing meals from fresh ingredients. But Paul liked messing about in the kitchen and Markby didn't. He read the newspaper and then turned on the television for the news, but dozed off before it came on with his feet on the camel saddle footstool he'd gained when he and Rachel had split up. Neither of them had wanted it and Rachel being Rachel, items neither of them wanted ended up forming his share of their divided goods and chattels.

The persistent double buzz of the telephone awoke him. He opened his eyes with a start and looked at his watch. It was a little before midnight. He got up, switched off the television and picked up the receiver. 4 'Hullo?"

"Thank God, Alan, you're there!" It was Paul, his brother-in-law, clearly agitated.

Markby asked quickly, "Is something wrong with Laura?"

"No, it's Emma—she's gone! She's not in her room! Laura looked in on the kids on her way to bed as she always does and Emma's gone—just vanished!"

"Hold on!" Markby interrupted firmly. "I presume she went to bed as usual?"

"Yes, yes! Just as usual! Where on earth—"

"Have you checked the house and garden and are any of her clothes missing?"

"Yes, yes and yes!" Paul shouted down the line. "She's not in the house and she's wearing her jeans,

boots and anorak as far as we can tell. She'd folded up her pyjamas and put them back in her bed—" At this point Paul's voice became unsteady.