Murder At Wittenham Park (12 page)

Except that Morton was perhaps ten years the older and Timmins wore a blue blazer and slacks, they were remarkably similar in appearance: tall, broad-shouldered men with chunky faces, who would feel totally at home in a riot. They were exactly what the gangling Constable Rutherford hoped to be, but never would.

Gilroy wondered if they always worked as a team, like Barnum and Bailey or Abercrombie and Fitch. The two names had that sort of ring to them. More practically, he prayed that this was as high in the pecking order as the police representation was going to reach. In an Agatha Christie thriller the chief executive of the whole force, known as the chief constable, would have been round in seconds. In practice the chief constable was the only policeman in Oxfordshire whom Gilroy knew and the last one he wanted to see now, since that would signal a major crime to everyone, not least the press.

In the last hour or so a fearsome newspaper headline had rooted itself in Gilroy's seldom agile brain. “Murder at Wittenham Park,” it read. And with it had come the realization that he had to retrieve that bloody contract. Had Welch signed it or not? If he had, was it enforceable? Either way, he was faced with disaster when the Lloyds call for cash flopped onto the mat on Monday morning. If Welch had signed, who would now pay for the land? If he hadn't, where on earth was the money to be found? Gilroy sighed to himself in this deeply unpleasant reverie. When a man stares bankruptcy in the face the last thing he wants is to be interviewed by the police equivalent of the Chicago Bears.

“You were saying, sir?” Morton prompted, taking note of the sigh and wondering why Lord Gilroy seemed so troubled.

“Oh yes. Well, the murder weekend was a scheme to make more use of the house.” He explained its details. “Funny thing is that Welch was slotted as the murderer.”

“Whereas it's him who's been murdered, you mean?” Sergeant Timmins suggested, deftly opening a mile-wide trap for Gilroy to fall into.

“Was he?” Gilroy's worst fears were confirmed and his expression showed it.

“You seemed to imply that, sir.” Morton defended his assistant, again noticing Gilroy's agitation.

“Did I? Well I never intended to.” Gilroy saw the ground opening in front of him just in time. “No, what I meant was that it's odd that the man playing the murderer should end up dead.”

“Quite so,” Morton said drily.

“Was he murdered? God, I do hope not.”

“We have to wait for the pathologists to tell us how he died. You sound as though it matters to you?”

“It does. The publicity would be appalling.”

“He was not a personal friend?”

“No.” Gilroy managed to restrain himself from being more vehement.

“And when did you last see Mr. Welch?”

“After dinner last night. We had a business discussion in my study. He wanted to buy some land from us.”

“At what time did that end?”

“Well…” Gilroy tried to reason this out. The meeting had been so inexorably painful that the last thing he wanted to do was recall it. “Dinner was over around nine. We all met in my study about half an hour later.”

“There were several of you?”

“He brought his lawyer along. Mrs. McMountdown.”

“For a murder weekend?”

“Welch was using the weekend to negotiate, not play cops and robbers.”

“I see.” Morton nodded, trusting Timmins to get all this down in writing and reflecting that Police Constable Rutherford had been correct. There must be more to this than met the eye. “And when did the meeting end?”

“Around ten or ten fifteen. That was the last time I saw him.”

“And what did you do after that, sir?”

“Had a brief discussion with the lawyer about amendments to the contract and went to bed.”

“So who would have been the last person to see him?”

“The lawyer would have spoken to him again. His wife might have done, although she was sleeping in another room. Otherwise I haven't a clue.”

A stupidly appropriate phrase, Morton thought, thanked him for his help and asked if they could have a room to use for interviews. Gilroy offered the study, but was relieved when they declined and accepted a former staff sitting-room off the kitchens.

“And what d'you make of his lordship?” Morton asked his sergeant once they were alone.

“Worried about something, sir. And he didn't much like the deceased.”

“Hated his guts, from the look on his face. Well, let's get on with it.” Morton studied the guest list. “We'll start with this McMountdown woman. What a name to have to live with!”

“Don't forget Rutherford saw the father-and-daughter pair behaving suspiciously and taking notes.”

“I'll see them later. Now go and fetch the lawyer.”

It took very little time after Dulcie was brought in for Morton to realize that she regarded her late employer's business affairs as sacrosanct. Anticipating what was going to happen, she had dressed in a neat short-skirted fawn suit with a velvet collar. Her mop of hair was firmly brushed back and she had used her make-up sparingly.

“Did you see Mr. Welch again? After your final meeting with Lord Gilroy?” Morton asked.

“Yes.” Dulcie spoke decisively. “I took some papers to his room for him to read.”

“A contract for the sale of land by Lord Gilroy, I believe.” Morton exceeded his brief fractionally, because he felt sure that if Welch had been murdered, the land deal would turn out to be relevant. But it was unwise of him. Dulcie cut him down.

“It would not be proper for me to comment on uncompleted business, Inspector. I'm sure you understand that.”

“If it had any bearing on the deceased's death it could.”

“That would be hard to imagine,” Dulcie said quietly. “At all events, I discussed the documents with George, gave him my advice, and left them with him.”

“What time was that?”

“Twelve minutes past eleven.”

“You can be as precise as that?”

“Yes.” Dulcie decided to explain why. “George was drinking whisky. For some reason he'd been brought a mug of cocoa and he offered it to me. I like a hot drink before going to bed. Then I thought I might need to do some more work, checked the time, decided it was too late, and took the mug with me.”

“To your room?”

“Yes. Where else?”

“And you didn't see him again?”

“Not alive.”

“Do you know if anyone did?”

“No. But there were a lot of goings-on in the night.”

“Such as?”

Dulcie smiled thinly. “My apologies. That statement was hearsay. I slept right through to when the maid started screaming at seven-thirty, though she must have knocked on my door when she left the early-morning tea outside earlier.”

“So who told you about these ‘goings-on'?”

“Just about everyone. They were part of the plot.”

“You don't know who was moving around during the night?”

Again the thin smile. “Afraid I can't help there.”

“One final question, Mrs. McMountdown. Did Mr. Welch have any reason to take his own life?”

“Not that I'm aware of. He had problems, who doesn't. But this weekend was likely to solve them.”

Morton did not ask for an explanation, merely thanked her and she left.

“Bloody lawyers,” Timmins remarked. “Never give away anything.”

“Not if they can help it,” Morton agreed. “And she does know what was going on and she didn't like it. Let's look at the guest list again.” He paused as Timmins handed it across. “Nearly lunchtime. I suppose we can fit in one more.”

“Why not try the father and daughter, sir? Their notes could be useful.”

Morton acquiesced and a few minutes later Jim and Jemma were facing the two policemen across the battered old rectangular oak table of the servants' sitting-room.

“What were your roles in the ‘murder' plot?” Morton asked genially, varying his approach. “Seems most of the guests weren't interested.”

“They were beastly,” said Jemma. “We were the only ones who tried, except for Priscilla Worthington. No one else even pretended to be keen.”

“And you played…?”

“I was the reporter and Daddy was the detective.” She caught sight of the guest list that Timmins had in front of him. “But you already know that!”

“I prefer people to tell me in their own words. And when did you last see Welch, Mr. Savage?”

“Having coffee after dinner.”

“Did he appear completely normal?”

“He was in a foul temper, actually.” Jim said. “Swore at Mrs. Worthington and demanded a bottle of whisky in his room.”

“As the detective,” Morton said, unable to keep a note of cynicism out of his voice, “I assume you kept notes?”

“Fragmentary ones.”

“May I see them?”

Jim fished into his coat pocket for his notebook and passed it across the table. Morton read through the few entries. “So Welch was shouting at someone before dinner. Who do you suppose that was, Mr. Savage?”

“We never discovered.”

“The first clue referred to a row after dinner, not before.” Jemma said.

“Hmm.” Privately Morton was contemptuous of amateur detectives and had not forgotten Rutherford's description of these two's activities in the bedroom corridor. “And after dinner you overheard another conversation in Lord Gilroy's study. Quite a bit of eavesdropping, eh?”

“We were playing our parts,” Savage said, starting to feel annoyed. Why was this man needling him? “This was an Agatha Christie—style weekend.”

“And you continued playing them even after Mr. Welch was dead?”

“I'm afraid I don't understand you.”

“You were attempting some kind of re-enactment outside Mr. Welch's room this morning.”

“That was my fault,” Jemma said quickly, fearful of being ridiculed but determined to retain her one piece of information. “I thought I'd seen someone outside his door earlier. But I was wrong. It was the door of the next room along.”

“And who did you see?”

“It must have been Lady Gilroy. She'd been using that bedroom for the murder.”

Morton was not sure that he believed this, but it fitted Rutherford's description of what they had been doing. He shifted his line of questioning.

“What is your profession, Mr. Savage?”

Savage told him, mentioning his redundancy.

“You had any prior knowledge of Mr. Welch?”

“He was under suspicion of insurance fraud a few years ago.”

“Is that why you came on this weekend, then?”

“I told you, I'm retired.”

“Daddy's an Agatha Christie buff,” Jemma said, irritated by this attack. “Don't you listen to what people tell you?”

“Experience has taught me never to take anything at face value,” Morton said quietly. “What is your profession?”

“I'm a reporter.”

“I mean in real life, Miss Savage.”

“In real life,” Jemma said sharply, resenting Morton's attitude. “I'm a crime reporter and I'm writing up this weekend for a magazine.”

“Is that so?” Morton said carefully, while Timmins's expression hardened, as if he'd just confronted a snake and was deliberating how to kill it. Morton knew there was no question of asking this girl for her notes. To do so would provoke a storm of media outrage. “Well, Miss Savage,” he went on, “I'm afraid that in the present circumstances your profession confers no privileges. Not, of course, that we have any reason to think a crime has been committed.”

“Then, if that's all,” Jim said, rising to his feet, “we'll be getting along to lunch.”

“You won't mind if I keep this?” Morton wiggled Jim Savage's notebook in the air. “Now your detective role is over.”

Jim and Jemma left without saying anything more. Once outside, Jim let rip. “That man was deliberately having fun at our expense. Or trying to.”

“I nearly told him to sugar off,” Jemma agreed.

In the interview room Timmins let out his breath sharply. “A bloody reporter. Just our luck.”

“I made a mistake there,” Morton admitted. “Trouble is I never could take amateur detection seriously. So I put the girl's back up. Stupid of me. Let's go along to a pub for lunch.”

As the two men walked back to the hall they discovered there was a new arrival. A lanky man in his forties was standing there looking bemused, while the woman they knew was Loredana Chancemain scourged him verbally.

“How clever of you not to be here when George died,” she was saying acidly. “Now we're all stuck in this wretched place and you're free to do what you want. Really, Trevor! And it was you who was all for this weekend.”

“No, darling,” her husband objected weakly, “it was you who insisted on coming.” Though tall and good-looking, underneath he was a mild-mannered man. He sported a small moustache and his brown hair was thinning out. His protest carried no weight at all with Loredana.

“Don't you scowl at me!” she retaliated “And what little bit of ‘business' kept you in Kenya anyway? Some African ‘lady,' I suppose. Why don't you just go home again? Nobody wants you here.”

“Excuse me.” Morton stepped up to the arguing couple and introduced himself, addressing the man. “I take it you're the missing guest, sir?”

“Only just got here,” Trevor said, with more vigour than before. “What a reception!”

“How dare you say that!” Loredana shrieked, working herself up very nicely into a rage. “How dare you insult me!”

“Darling, I didn't mean—”

“You never do know what you mean.” She turned this swiftly into a lament. “And you're not stuck here like the rest of us.”

“I would prefer that none of the guests leave until the cause of Mr. Welch's death has been established,” Morton confirmed, thinking that if this did turn into a murder inquiry he would not want the scene further contaminated by a new arrival who, on the face of it, could not be involved. “You've just returned from Kenya, sir?”