The Ellie Hardwick Mysteries (11 page)

I wasn't listening. I was hunting glumly through my directory.

‘Got it!' Charles shouted in triumph. ‘Just the bloke! Young, handsome, energetic, polished . . . well, fairly polished . . . and in his line of work he's be bound to have some fancy suiting!'

‘Johnny
Depp's tied up that weekend,' I muttered.

‘No, no! I'm talking about that police inspector who keeps hauling you in and out of trouble. What's his name . . .? Richard Something. Or was it Something Richard? Very traditional lot, the Filth. They have black tie do's all the time. Bet he's got just the thing.'

‘Detective Inspector Richard Jennings?' I gave a grating laugh. ‘We never managed to get it together, Charles, if you know what I mean. Both busy people, demanding bosses, bleepers calling us back to the office just as things get interesting. Haven't seen him for six months. Fast-Track-Man that he was, he's probably been promoted to the Met. by now. Still . . . good dancer and quite a charmer . . . I'll give it a go. You're not to interrupt.'

‘Hello . . . is that Richard? Ellie Hardwick here.'

‘Ellie? Oh, Ellie!'

I rushed on, embarrassed that he quite obviously had not been sitting by the phone expecting to hear from me for the last few months. ‘Look, I was wondering if you owned a dinner suit and if you wouldn't mind putting it on to escort me to a glamorous event the Saturday after next? Pink champagne, jazz band, the cream of the county there . . .'

‘I'll stop you right there and say—no, sorry, I have no such garment in my wardrobe.'

I must have sighed into the phone. He went
on:
‘Is there a problem? Ellie? Is it important? Where is this event?'

‘Hallowes Hall. The Redmaynes are celebrating a year's residence and I was to be paraded as their architect.'

There was a silence as he absorbed this, then: ‘Hallowes Hall? This is the newly created peer of the realm—Lord Redmayne of Deben or some such—we're talking about, is it?'

‘That one. Services to inner city regeneration and all that.'

‘Huh! It used to be called property development in my day. Mmm. And you know these people well? I had no idea.'

‘I only know them in a professional capacity but, as an architect, you do discover some intimate details—which I never disclose so don't ask.'

‘Listen—my father has four evening outfits . . .'

‘Four?'

‘He never throws anything away and as his size increases he adds to his stock. And lends them out to me in emergencies. I've reached his size 2. Okay, Ellie, I'll borrow it and turn up in accordance with time and place you specify. Send me an e-mail. Schedule permitting, of course. You know what it's like.'

‘You'll come? Great! But look, Richard, just in case you're called out at the last minute—book your father in for me would you? I'll be happy with a size four!'

‘Not
on your life!' I was reassured to hear his familiar chuckle. ‘I wouldn't trust the old rogue within a hundred yards of you!'

* * *

I was more than content, I felt a stirring of excited anticipation as I glanced at my escort, guiding his old Saab skilfully down the rutted track between the cornfields towards the sound of jazzy music and laughter of a party well under way at the Hall ahead of us. DCI Jennings, done up in his number 2 outfit and smelling alluringly of something expensive and woody, was reassuringly correct.

‘Don't worry, Ellie,' he said, catching an appraising glance, ‘I won't let you down. You won't hear a clank of handcuffs coming from my back pocket and I won't put on my robot-copper's voice.'

He slowed to take in the long, low lines of the refurbished house and gave an appreciative whistle.

‘Fifteenth century,' I told him. ‘It's got the lot—king-posts in the roof, screens arches, panelled doors, even a priest's hole.' I looked at the steeply pitched roof with its gently undulating coverlet of plain tiles ranging in colour from a red so dark as to be almost black, through buff to white where the lime-torching on the underside showed through. ‘So glad I managed to persuade Ronald not to
strip
the roof and re-tile. Those beauties are good for a few more years yet.'

The long front was plastered and colour-washed to a burnt orange, dark under the eaves, fading away to nothing at the brick plinth which ran round the house. As we watched, the setting sun, still undefeated on this late June evening, caught the leaded panes and sent back a dazzle of golden light. A double line of stout candles of medieval size wavering within their glass holders welcomed guests across the vast lawn to the marquee from where the sounds of jollity were coming.

Welcoming also and attentive was the pair of uniformed valets who took the car keys, exchanging masculine pleasantries with Jennings, and we set off across the grass towards the distant figures of Ronald and Alicia, standing ready to greet the last few guests. Richard, with an old-fashioned gesture took my arm and put it through his and, in my high heels, I found I was glad of the support.

Squeals of recognition, tuberose-scented air-kisses and manly hand-shakes welcomed us to the party and I was amused to see the interested look the dark-haired and willowy Alicia cast at the inspector. Amused also to hear him introduce himself to their host. ‘How do you do, sir? Richard Jennings. Criminologist. Cambridge.'

‘Oh, I say! D'you hear that, Alicia? A Cambridge academic. Another one! There's a
professor
of something or other poking about the place somewhere already . . . perhaps you know each other?'

‘Medieval history,' Alicia hissed, suddenly witch-like in her intensity. ‘Marcus is a historian. He's inspecting our cock's head hinges.'

Ronald rolled his eyes. ‘Well, there you are,' he said happily. ‘My good wife's latest enthusiasm! Cocks heads!' He added with a leer: ‘Hinged or otherwise. And it's you I blame, Ellie, for getting her going. She's never at home these days—forever off on some historical workshop or tracking some luckless ancestor back through the rotting branches of her family tree. You must meet this chap, Marcus. If you can find him. Probably burrowed into the woodwork by now. Pink champagne? For you both? Or is the architect driving? Oh, before you move off, Ellie—do feel free to show your young man around the house. He'll be very impressed, I know!'

‘What's that you're muttering, Richard?' I asked as we wandered over to the marquee clutching our champagne.

‘Um . . . Nouveau-riche, arriviste, exploitative, bull-dozing chancer,' he said with a smile. ‘That's what I was saying. And I was trying to be polite. If I were telling the whole truth I'd add—villain. How on earth did you get involved with these dodgy people, Ellie?'

‘The usual way. Estate Agent's
recommendation.
They pass our name to rich clients who need good guidance from a firm that knows the local property and isn't going to rip them off. The Redmaynes aren't generally known to be—what did you say?—something slanderous: crooks? In fact they're making quite a niche for themselves in local society.' I waved a hand around at the glittering crowd. Bare shoulders, supercilious glances, diamonds winking at the throat, over-loud laughter, flushed faces and male guffaws. ‘A ‘‘Lord'', however fresh the paint on his escutcheon, cuts some ice in this county. This is their new small pond. They want to be big fish in it and they've got the clout to do it. If they're at all uncertain they can hire people like me to advise them. Don't knock wealth, Richard, it creates a lot of work locally. This place kept a team of Suffolk craftsmen going for a year.'

‘Right. But you've finished here now, I take it? Hope you have. Well, shall we mingle with the crowd? I see some faces even I recognise. Let's just hope they don't recognise me. Cast a discreet glance, will you, at the blokes over there at the table under the apple tree. I've got mug shots of the lot of them back at HQ. And one of them has just got back from Spain. The tall one with the full suntan. Flew in from the Costa del Crime two days ago. Stay well away from
him,
Ellie.' He fell silent for a moment, glancing around uneasily, eyes seeking the gesticulating figure of their host and flicking
back
to the visitor from Spain. ‘This could turn nasty. I wonder if old Ron's aware of the serpent lurking in his shrubbery?' he murmured. ‘I do hope he's slipped on his steel-lined Y-fronts. He's annoyed some influential people lately. Could have brought down a painful retribution on his head. Or other more sensitive parts of his anatomy.'

‘Those blokes don't look at all suspicious to me. Just like the other men here—successful businessmen, you'd say. They probably give generously to charity and own half a racehorse.'

‘And support a heavy alimony habit,' said Jennings, ‘judging by the third wives clustering around.'

‘How can you tell they're third wives?'

‘Not difficult. Get your eye in, Ellie. First wives at this binge are in gold lamé and real jewels, dressed for a night at the Royal Opera House . . . a night twenty years ago. The second wives are in Chloë and Manolos with a spray tan, streaked hair and a watchful expression. Third wives are young and skinny as alley-cats and tug at their hair extensions in boredom. They'd rather be back home watching the
X Factor
.'

I looked at him in surprise. It occurred to me that I really knew very little about DI Jennings. ‘I had no idea you were so observant! What are you then? Some sort of profiler? Okay, Mr. Clever, tell me what
category
Alicia comes into.'

He pretended to reflect. ‘“Not immediately obvious. Dark-hair and mysterious dark eyes. Intelligent looking. Far too good for Ron. Stylish woman. Chanel, would you say—that white clinging thing? Something as tasteful as it's expensive, anyway. She's a good bit younger than Ron so I'll go for second wife but with more than a touch of independence about her.'

‘You're pretty good. That's right. Except I know she favours Dior. Not sure I'd know the difference. Second wife, ambitious, wealthy in her own right. Family money—that's what gives her the independence you've noticed. You know—I've actually heard some women say—squirming with gratitude: ‘‘He's offered to give me a new kitchen!'' I pass those jobs straight on to Charles. Now, Alicia tells Ron what he's going to get! And she has the sense to listen to the experts she's paying. But all this is rather alarming. Lord knows what pigeon-hole you've put
me
into.'

His face softened. ‘Can't categorise you. A one off. Nearest I can get is arty-chic. In that floating greenery-yellery thing you've got on, you'd better watch out. Wander off into the orchard in the gloaming and the Spirits of the Place will claim you for their own. I don't want to have to explain you've been carried off by a hairy-legged woodland faun to the sound of pan-pipes. So stay close to me.'

I
shivered and decided that would be no problem.

* * *

We ate supper at a table with people I knew in the rose-draped marquee. We danced and chatted, but I waited in vain for Richard to suggest a stroll through the orchard or the herb garden. Annoyingly, he seemed happy to stay in the candle-lit orbit of the other guests, drinking sparingly, eyes watchful.

After darkness had fallen he suddenly checked the time, excused himself and set off in the direction of the cloakrooms. He returned quickly and smiling said: ‘Ellie, before it gets too late, why don't you do as our host invited and show me round your handiwork? The house seems to be open—there are people wandering in and out.'

Puzzled, I accompanied him as he walked quickly from room to room on the ground floor even poking his nose into the outside log store and the gardener's lavatory.

‘Not thinking of making an offer for it, are you, Richard?'

‘I only wish! Upstairs? Did you have a hand in that?'

‘Not really. I just oversaw the refurbishment and reconstruction of the original fittings. Cosmetic mostly. Still it's pretty glamorous up there. Alicia's had the good taste to leave
well
alone and let the bones of the house show through. You can get a real feel for medieval living. Of course, it's a wonderful foil for
her
with her
belle dame sans merci
looks. You know—all that lily on the brow, and on thy cheeks a fading rose . . .'

‘I think that was her love-lorne knight-at-arms?' he corrected. ‘The lady herself was:

‘
Full beautiful—a faery's child,
' he murmured, trotting upstairs ahead of me.

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.'

‘Mmm . . . yes . . . I can just see the Lady Alicia sighing and moaning in these surroundings. Not so sure about old Ron,' he said shining a slim torch onto ancient timbers, tapestries, copper bowls of pot-pourri and coarse rush carpets underfoot. A swift inspection of the rooms revealed draped four-poster beds, two of them suspiciously a-tremble.

Finally, ‘Is there any room we haven't looked into?' he asked.

‘Only the space Ron mentioned—the Priest's Hole. This was a Roman Catholic house in a sea of Parliamentary supporters. They had to have somewhere to hide the visiting clergy from Cromwell's squaddies.'

‘Show me.'

The narrow space was cleverly contrived between two rooms in such a way that the regular march of the windows was not
interrupted.
I showed him the exact spot to press on the panelling which sprang back an inch, allowing me to put my fingers behind it and slide it back sideways, revealing a closed door.

As I clicked on the external light, I had sudden misgivings. ‘I don't feel comfortable doing this,' I said. ‘Well you never know what we might disturb . . . There's a sort of day bed in there . . . Champagne flowing for hours . . . Some people might think it the perfect spot for a bit of . . .'