Paws for Alarm (15 page)

‘Searching for what?'

‘How do I know? Blake was some kind of lawyer, wasn't he? Maybe he was keeping evidence about a case here.'

‘What evidence? What case?'

‘God knows. But there are all sorts of cases reported in the media here every day. Look at all those supercrooks and supergrasses they're always on about. There are millions of pounds missing sometimes. And how about all the spies around? Every time somebody in MI5 sneezes, it turns out he's been working for Russia and sneezing in code for years. Maybe Blake was involved in one of those cases. He could have papers, or tapes –'

‘Or microdots! Arnold, we've been living in this house for weeks. If there was anything obvious, we'd have stumbled over it ages ago. And, if it isn't obvious, how would we know it's what anybody would want?'

‘Stop and think a minute, Babe.' Arnold was getting portentous. ‘We haven't been living
all
over the house. There's one room we've never looked inside. Who knows what might be in there?'

‘The storeroom? Where Rosemary left all their private effects? Oh, now look, Arnold, there wouldn't be anything there. We did that ourselves at home – it's standard operating procedure. I wouldn't like to think that Rosemary was going to walk into our storeroom on some trumped-up excuse and through our personal belongings.'

‘There's something else about that room,' Arnold said. ‘It's the one Blake built on to the house – all by himself.'

‘And you've just been aching for a reason to get in there and have a good nose-around. I might have known it!'

‘Where's the key?'

‘You've just been dying to get in there –'

‘On the contrary, Babe,' he said quietly. ‘I'm trying to keep from dying.'

I was right behind him as he swung open the door and stepped into the room. It was lined with built-in bookcases. That was the outstanding feature of the house: bookcases everywhere. From the shelves in the kitchen holding Rosemary's collection of cookbooks, to the small freestanding bookcase against the wall of our bedroom containing light literature.

But these bookshelves were only half full. I felt a lump forming in my throat. This room had been built by a man with an eye to the future, a library to be an adjunct to his study, to expand into and fill with books as his life expanded and his library kept pace with his interests. He had never suspected that he had no future.

The next thing I noticed was that the shelves that didn't contain books displayed porcelain. Thank heavens Rosemary hadn't left those fragile breakables outside where the twins could get at them. On second thoughts they probably resided in here permanently, safe from her own children as well. It was a room for the whole family to grow into, in time – time that had been snatched away from them.

It wasn't going to be snatched away from us! I felt a sense of cold purpose. Forewarned was forearmed – and we were now warned, as the Blake family had never been.

‘Okay, Arnold,' I said briskly. ‘What are we looking for?'

‘Something out of place?' Arnold hazarded, stirring a heap of potpourri in a silver rose bowl. A scent of faded roses curled through the room.

There was a pile of suitcases and boxes in one corner, probably containing clothing and personal items. We had done that, too. If Arnold's theory was correct, there was no point in looking into those, because they had been packed and put away after John Blake's death. What we were looking for was something that had been placed – perhaps hidden – in the room while he was still alive.

But what? How can you look around someone else's house and decide what should or shouldn't be there? Especially when you have never met the people.

‘Arnold,' I said, ‘maybe we're going about this in the wrong way.'

‘Okay, so what's the right way?' Arnold tapped the frame of an oil painting hanging in the narrow space between two windows. He lifted it off the hook and turned it over: there was no back covering, no place where anything could be concealed, just bare canvas. He sighed and replaced it.

‘We should be thinking about the people concerned, asking questions ... Arnold, are you listening?'

‘Yeah, sure, honey.' He was stroking the windowsill lovingly and I knew I had lost him. ‘Just look at the way this joint is dovetailed –'

‘Arnold!'

‘Asking questions,' he echoed guiltily. ‘Yeah, you may be right.' He looked around in defeat. ‘I sure can't see anything here that might explain the problem. But who should we ask – and how? We can't go up to people and say, “By the way, you don't happen to know of any reason why John Blake should have been murdered, do you?” It was written off as an accident.'

‘No, but maybe we can sort of lead up to it. Start them talking about him and reminiscing. Do you realize, people have barely mentioned him to us?'

‘That's hardly surprising. We never knew him. They probably thought it would be tactless, since we're occupying the house for the summer.'

‘We'll start at Lania's cocktail party,' I decided. ‘Surely, after a few drinks, we ought to be able to guide the conversation around to poor John Blake and his sudden tragic death.'

It was a bright enough idea, but I'd overlooked a vital point: when we got to Lania's cocktail party, there was only one topic of conversation. That was what she had meant by ‘the unveiling'.

I gasped as we crossed the threshold of the drawing-room. It had been redone completely. Instead of the cold, stark ice-floes, we stepped into a jungle. Deep lush green everywhere, leafy-patterned drapes and upholstery, bark-like furniture frames and tables like old tree stumps. Here and there, a splash of vivid colour denoted tropical blooms and sometimes actually were. I glanced down at my staid black dress with regret; I could have worn the crimson chiffon again and passed as a frangipani.

‘Whew-ew!' Arnold whistled under his breath. ‘All that's missing is the voodoo drums ... and, maybe, the Earl of Greystoke.'

‘Speaking of which –' As my eyes became accustomed to the wild profusion, I began to pick out feces and forms. ‘Look over there – behind the trailing vine.'

Lania, in a tropical white sleeveless dress and Piers, in pale tan trousers and safari jacket, were holding court at another oversized tree stump. They were dispensing drinks and greeting. All they lacked were pith helmets.

‘Heh-heh –' Arnold began and I nudged him sharply in the ribs. 'I could have worn my Bermuda shorts!' he gasped. We began edging our way over to Lania across the verdigreen and sludge swamp that was masquerading as a carpet – or vice versa.

‘One gets so bored with things always being the same,' Lania was saying as we reached the jungle bar.

‘It's certainly very dramatic,' a disembodied voice said. The effect was so uncanny that I blinked and looked hard in the direction of the voice. I found one of the neighbours who had been incautious enough to wear a green-patterned dress and thus had almost disappeared into the scenery.

We murmured our congratulations to Lania, collected our drinks, and retreated to the far side of the swamp.

‘I don't see why she changed everything,' Arnold complained. ‘And what did she do with all that other furniture?' His New England soul was affronted by conspicuous waste. ‘It was all practically brand new.'

‘Maybe it's your fault,' I said. ‘You ruined her hedge out front, so she's moved all the greenery in here where you can't get at it again. There's probably some deep psychological –'

‘Ah-hem ...' There was a throat-clearing noise behind us. We turned to discover our putative host.

‘Oh, Richard, I'd –' I stopped short. I couldn't very well say,
I'd forgotten all about you.
Even though I had. Lania and Piers seemed so perfect a couple it was sometimes hard to remember that they weren't. Especially when they were engaged in the sort of double act they were doing now. Richard was the one who looked more out of place than some of the guests.

‘Hi, Richard!' Arnold covered my lapse quickly. ‘Never a dull moment, hey?'

‘Well, hardly ever,' Richard murmured. He was leaning against the window frame, surveying the room with the air of a man who had built his castle on shifting sands.

‘It's pretty sensational,' Arnold went on, ‘but I must admit I kinda liked the room the way it was before.'

‘So did I.' Richard took a sip of his drink. And the way it was before that, and before that.' He shrugged. ‘I'll get used to it, I suppose. I always do.'

‘You mean this keeps on happening?' Arnold was stunned. He'd never believed me when I tried to tell him that other people redecorate their homes every decade or so, whether they need it or not.

‘Ever since I was foolish enough to bring Piers home for dinner one evening and he joined our family circle.' Richard darted a baleful glare in the direction of the smooth blond head and writhed uncomfortably. He was wearing a T-shirt and tight blue jeans as his interpretation of what the well-dressed jungle explorer should wear. He had chosen wrong and he knew it. ‘I should have worn a dinner jacket,' he muttered. ‘Then I could be the stiff upper lipped sahib, keeping up the standards of civilization while the storm clouds gathered.'

‘You look just fine,' I said unconvincingly. ‘No one –' I stopped again.
No one is looking at you, anyway,
while true, could not be expected to be comforting.

‘What happens -?' Arnold returned to his original speculation. ‘What happens to the furniture? This –' he tapped the rough bark of a nearby chair – ‘this isn't your old stuff, recycled, is it?'

‘Oh, no.' Richard shook his head and sipped again at his drink. I did not have the feeling that it was the drink that caused his lips to twist bitterly. ‘Oh, no, we've turned a nice profit on the last lot. Don't worry about that. Piers brought some wealthy friends to tea last week, while I was at work. By sheer chance –' his lips twisted again – ‘they were doing up a new flat in Mayfair. They were so taken with the decor that – they took it. Very nice price. Allowed Lania and dear Piers to do all this and still have a nice profit left over.'

‘It's really quite nice.' I tried to sound encouraging.

‘Don't get too fond of it. It will only last until the next customer comes along. Sometimes, I think we should charge dear Piers a rental fee. We're saving him from paying for a showroom, after all. But I don't suppose Lania would wear it. She's quite content to let her family act as guinea pigs.'

Arnold and I exchanged glances. This wasn't going the way we had planned it. The room – or jungle clearing – was pretty crowded now. We hadn't realized it was going to be such a big party. Lania had made it sound as though just a few friends were dropping in. There were dozens of people we didn't know.

They all seemed to know each other, though, and were gathering in little cliques, backs turned to any outsiders. I was beginning to feel nearly as invisible as the woman in the green dress.

‘Still, it's nice you made a profit.' Arnold turned back to Richard, who seemed the only one willing to carry on a conversation with us. Maybe because no one else was clamouring for his attention. An occasional cool nod was as much as he was accorded from people moving forward eagerly to speak to Lania and Piers. I began to suspect that this was a reception for his customers – past, present and potential. That would explain a lot of things.

‘What did you do with the kids?' I asked. I could not imagine throwing a party without the twins underfoot. From an early age, they had learned to make themsleves useful by passing round the canapés and peanuts.

‘They're upstairs,' Richard said. “They live upstairs, poor little devils. They prefer it – and I don't blame them.'

‘Children don't like change very much,' I agreed.

Richard gave a short bitter laugh, looked in surprise at his empty glass, and lurched away for a refill.

‘Well,' Arnold said, ‘do you think we ought to circulate?'

‘We could try.' I looked at all the backs turned to us. ‘But maybe we ought to finish our drinks first.'

‘That's not a bad idea.' Arnold acted on it. ‘Better than the last one you had. Or do you think any of these people knew John Blake? They don't seem to be locals – their accents are different.'

‘I think this is a high-grade Tupperware party,' I said. ‘Except that the furnishings are for sale instead of any smaller items.'

‘You could be right.' Arnold looked sympathetic. ‘Imagine having the furniture sold out from under you every time you turned around. It's enough to make a man wonder if he's in the right house if he comes home late at night.'

‘Oh!' I spotted a familiar back. ‘There's somebody we know!' Standing alone, her back to us, she was looking around uncertainly. She didn't seem to know anyone here, either.

‘Hazel –' I raised my voice above the crescendo of babbling voices. ‘Here we are – come and join us. Hazel?'

Hazel moved off without even glancing round at us.

‘Well! Well, how do you like that? She could at least have said hello.'

‘Poor old Hazel –' Richard had returned to us, bearing a full glass. ‘Don't mind her. She does that every now and again. We think she's a bit deaf. One has to be facing her and speaking clearly. Otherwise, well, you saw her –' He shrugged. ‘We tried to joke with her about it once, but she got quite upset. It's obviously a sensitive subject. Go over and tap her on the shoulder. Once you've got her attention, she's all right. She concentrates then.'

‘Okay.' I stalked Hazel across the swamp. She was walking aimlessly, obviously looking for familiar faces.

‘Hazel –' I tapped her on the shoulder, as instructed. She swung round to face me and broke into a wide smile. That was it, then, she hadn't meant to snub us, she just hadn't heard me. Not that it was too surprising anyway, the party was entering a very noisy stage.