Murder Among Us (22 page)

"Oh, going somewhere nice?" enquired Meredith.

Zoe turned redder. "I don't know. I haven't made up my mind." She fiddled with the racked clothes. "Can I

ask you, do you think you'd know if I turned up wearing something I'd bought here?"

"If I didn't know you'd bought it here and it was a good label and in good nick, why should I?" Meredith returned simply.

Zoe looked relieved. "Only I was thinking he'd guess and I'd be so embarrassed, I think I'd just sink through the floor."

"He?" Meredith picked out a tan and white striped two-piece. "This would suit you."

"Yes, I've already looked at that." Zoe fingered the material. "That is an awfully good label, isn't it? I wonder how it got here?"

"Someone bought it for a special occasion and didn't get the chance to wear it again, or got too fat. Who knows? It wants a decent press but otherwise it's in very good condition. I'd be surprised if it has been worn half a dozen times."

Zoe held the two-piece up against her and regarded her reflection in the mirror provided. "Mr. Schuhmach-er's invited me to lunch at the hotel," she said bluntly.

"Oh? That will be nice. He's got a marvellous chef."

"I don't know much about food, that kind of food, and not a thing about wine. I'm really in two minds about accepting. The thing is, he says he might have some ideas about the Rest Home. He wants us to leave our present site, but he's got some idea about what we might do. I feel I ought to go and listen to him. After all, he might have the answer, although if it costs any money it won't be any use to us no matter how good an idea it is."

Zoe sighed. "I do feel a bit awkward about going," she went on, ' 'because apart from anything else, the historical society wouldn't understand my breaking bread with our enemy."

"Not their problem, the Horses' Rest Home, is it?" said Meredith firmly. "I'd go and see Eric, if I were you."

"But you're not me," said Zoe dolefully. "You're very capable and smart and you know how to sit and eat the kind of meal I'll get put in front of me and make intelligent remarks. I only know about animals and if I drink wine I fall asleep."

"Eric's not an ogre, you know," said Meredith gently.

"No, he's not, is he? I thought he was until I met him."

"Then go along to his lunch. Jaw-jaw is better than war-war, as they say."

"Yes, I will!" Zoe brightened. "Meredith, would you mind waiting while I try this on and give me your opinion?"

"It looks fine, perfect fit," said Meredith when Zoe emerged a few minutes later from the cubicle. "You need some high heels."

"I've got a black pair, very old but I can polish them up. They are leather—they were quite good ones when new."

"Get yourself a pair of tights. Turning up with no stockings isn't really a good idea. The suit needs brightening up. Got any jewellery?"

Zoe hadn't, but the shop provided a chunky turquoise necklace for a pound and, a real bonus, a black clutch purse for the same price.

"I know the society isn't going to like this," said Zoe again when they emerged from the shop. "It is only a business lunch, after all, but people can be funny. Charles Grimsby made an awful fuss at the last meeting because he'd seen Robin lunching with Ellen a few times and it was all about nothing. But Robin was very angry." She paused. "Robin won't like my lunching with Mr. Schuhmacher either. They had a—a disagreement when Schuhmacher came to the Home."

"So don't tell him."

"He'll find out," said Zoe sapiently. "People always find out the things you don't want them to know, don't they?"

* * *

"As far as business is concerned, the murder is proving a nine-day wonder." said Eric, refilling Markby's glass. "You said it would be so, and you were right. I was very worried about the effect on trade, as I told you the last time you were here. But I'm glad to say other things have hit the headlines and people forget, as you knew they would."

"Yes, people forget," said Markby thoughtfully.

"I am pleased you could come," Schuhmacher said suddenly, leaning across the table. "And I'm sorry Miss Mitchell cannot be with us."

"So is she, but she wanted to go into Oxford to look around the bookshops. She's started collecting early editions of paperback crime novels. You know how it is with collectors!"

They had lunched well and Markby had that sense of well-being and rosy glow that comes from good food, wine, company and pleasant surroundings. "It was very good of you to invite me."

"Well, when you rang to see how we were getting on. it seemed only polite to offer you a decent meal, the more so because on the last occasion you didn't, as I recall, get any dinner!

"But enough of that!" Eric dismissed all matters pertaining to the murder. "My dear friend, I wish to discuss something of a personal nature. I have a great respect for your opinion. I am sure you will tell me the truth. A pity Miss Mitchell is not here to add a woman's viewpoint. However, you are a man who has seen much of human ways so I believe you will not be shocked, at any rate."

Markby contrived to appear outwardly both bland and encouraging but inwardly he was full of surprise mixed with trepidation. Meredith was right!

"I have now made the acquaintance of Miss Foster who runs the Horses' Home." Eric was saying. He was displaying unusually fidgety behaviour, realigning all the flowers in the table vase with scant resard to how the

finished arrangement looked. "Previously all our business had been conducted through third parties. When the child—your niece, of course. I am so very glad she was found. The fellow in the woods, the body, he is identified?''

He made this sudden sideways swoop in the direction of the conversation with a kind of intensity which suggested he was grateful for an excuse to abandon his original line of speech.

"Yes—he turned up in the computer with a string of sex convictions."

"Then he was certainly no loss." Eric paused to glower at the mangled flowers. "Sex turns up all the time in life, doesn't it?"

"Er—yes," Markby agreed cautiously.

Eric gave himself a little shake. "As I was saying, when the child and donkey disappeared, I called at the sanctuary to express my regret. She showed me round. I never saw such dreadful animals and she's devoted to them! I found her charming, not merely pretty but glowing with enthusiasm! She had mud on the end of her nose," added Eric regretfully. "I offered her my handkerchief which she refused and I hadn't the courage to wipe it away myself."

Markby struggled to suppress his reactions. He wished desperately Meredith were there. Eric, in this men's tete-a-tete f showed signs of going completely overboard. Silently he took back everything he'd said to Meredith about women chatting in the powder room! What the dickens was Schuhmacher going to say next?

"She is in fact a remarkable young woman," Eric declared. "And really most attractive—or she would be if it were not for the jeans and Wellington boots. And the awful haircut. Really, one longs ..." He fell silent. An absent expression entered his eyes. His fingers toyed with one of the martyred blooms in the vase.

"To do a Pygmalion?" Markby said with a smile.

"Exactly!" Eric came to. "Take her to a good hairdresser, dress her in some decent clothes—a skirt! I fear

this sounds quite disreputable on my part. I sound like some old roue of the Third Empire scouting around the streets of Paris for an innocent girl to establish. I don't mean it so." He fixed Markby with an earnest gaze. "I have no dishonourable intentions."

"Good Lord, Eric, I never thought you did! You like her. That's not a crime."

"Yes, I—did, do! But she is, I gather, only twenty-four. I am forty-four. It is a big difference in age, do you think?" Schuhmacher looked wistful.

4 'Nonsense. She is a most mature and capable young woman." Markby wondered guiltily if he ought to sound encouraging or not.

"Yes, yes!" Eric, somewhat disconcerting his guest, leaned forward and seized his sleeve. "I have never married, you know. I have always been too busy, always on the move. It is difficult. When I was young I first began in the hotel business because my family was in it. Then I turned out to have some sporting ability so I had a career in sport and then, when that finished, I returned to the hotel business. I have never had time to settle down. Of course in the past there have been occasions when I, you know, especially when I was a sportsman ... you understand?"

"Yes, yes, quite!" said Markby hurriedly, disengaging himself.

"But never seriously. Now, at forty-four, I do not wish to make myself ridiculous."

"You won't, why should you?"

"There is a younger man. Why should she not prefer him?"

"Why not ask her?"

"Hah!" said Eric grimly. He signalled to his head waiter. "A brandy? I have a special bottle, set aside for me. I bought it at auction some time ago. Very rare. You have been married, I think, Alan?"

"Yes," said Markby gloomily. He shook himself. "But don't let me put you off. Every marriage is dif-

ferent. Mine didn't work out, but that doesn't mean a thing."

"You will marry Miss Mitchell one day?"

"That's undecided. I mean, I'm decided, she isn't."

"Modern women," said Eric sadly. "Perhaps Miss Foster also would not wish to give up her independence."

Markby, recalling Zoe's rusting trailer, glanced round the sumptuous dining room. One could be tempted to be cynical. But, on the other hand, he was fairly sure this kind of affluence really wouldn't cut much ice with Zoe Foster. She'd see it as money wasted. Money which should be spent on old horses.

"She's rather keen on those old animals, Eric. Whatever she did, she wouldn't abandon them. Any, er, plan would have to take into account her dedication to the Rest Home."

"One of the small ponies attempted to bite me."

■ They all bite, as far as I can tell. Although my niece tells me it's generally because they've suffered at the hands of men. They don't bite her."

"Suffered at the hands of men," Eric repeated. "And do you think Miss Foster shares this mistrust of men?"

"How," demanded Markby in some exasperation, "should I know? If you want to find out, you'll have to—to make your own inquiries!"

"Yes." Eric sat back as the brandy arrived. "I have invited her to lunch. She has said she'll come. Perhaps I have made a terrible mistake. She will be insulted."

Markby, nursing the glass of tawny liquid and letting the aroma fill his nostrils, said slowly, "Some things aren't found often, Eric. Like this fine old brandy. When you find them it's a mistake to pass them up. At least put in a bid."

Margery Collins let herself into the shop, closed the door behind her and stood still letting her gaze wander around the shelves and racks, the bright stacks of wool, the array of tapestry canvases, the little trays full of rainbow-hued

cotton reels. It was all hers now. She owned Needles.

She had never owned anything substantial in her life before. She'd been brought up by an aunt. Since the age of eighteen she had lived in a rented room in a large house divided into a warren of lettings. She shared a couple of gas burners on the landing with two other people by way of a kitchen, and the bathroom with the whole house. She'd always hated it there, but now she needn't live there any longer.

Margery raised her eyes to the ceiling. She would live upstairs in Ellen's flat and come down every morning to open up the shop, her shop, just as Ellen had done. That was what Ellen had wanted. Mrs. Danby had been right. Ellen had wanted Margery- to have Needles, the flat, even thing, because Margery would understand and appreciate it. and earn' on where Ellen had left off. And the everything included Ellen's secret.

Margery knew now what it was. But she would keep it safe, just as Ellen had known she would. That was why Ellen had entrusted everything to her. Margery would look after it and preserve it as Ellen wanted, running Needles according to Ellen's business ideals, keeping the flat nice—and the secret safe.

At first Margery hadn't liked going upstairs to the flat. It had seemed cold and eerie. Sitting there with Mr. Markby going over the books she had felt like the worst kind of intruder.

But no longer. Not since she knew the secret. Now she felt a kind of partnership with Ellen. That was it, a partnership. Ellen had done more than just leave her Needles, she'd made her a partner.

Margery tossed back her hair and set off briskly towards the staircase leading up to the flat above. As she climbed it she was busily making plans. Mrs. Danby foresaw no problems with the will and when probate came through. Margery would be free to re-open Needles. She'd have to get herself properly organised first. She had already given notice to the landlord that she would be leaving the miserable cramped room at the end

of the month. But there was no reason why she shouldn't leave before. It was only a question of clearing the flat of Ellen's things and moving in her own few possessions.

She would keep Ellen's furniture, china and kitchen utensils. She might even keep one or two of Ellen's suits and dresses, because Ellen had bought some beautiful clothes recently. Not worn them, just bought them and hung them in the wardrobe. She'd shown them to Margery and Margery had understood. It wasn't necessary to wear these beautiful things, just to own them was enough. Just to be able to take them from their hangers and smooth the silky material, holding the garments up against you and parade before the mirror. Of course Margery wasn't Ellen and hadn't Ellen's looks, but in such nice clothes anyone, even Margery, would look better.

All this was probably sinful, thought Margery with a start of guilt. Vanity. But she would wear the dresses, put them to good practical use, and not just keep them to gloat over. And what she didn't keep she'd take along to Oxfam. That couldn't be sinful.

Feeling quite a buzz of anticipation Margery put the key to the door at the head of the stairs. To her surprise, without her turning the key and as soon as she touched the lock, the door swung open.

She hesitated, puzzled and feeling a twinge of alarm. She had locked it behind her the last time, she was sure. Had the police been back?