The Ellie Hardwick Mysteries (5 page)

‘Why do you suppose there's so little
blood?'
I whispered, my eyes drawn to the red-brown patch encircling the dagger blade. ‘There's just the merest trickle. Wouldn't you have expected a gush?'

‘Not necessarily—with a heart wound. It's been expertly done. The dagger was placed with precision and left in the wound. It's a skilful job, a surgical job, not a wild, crazed stabbing. But perhaps it was just a lucky stroke?' He shrugged. ‘At any rate I don't think we're going to find any blood-drenched overalls in the graveyard dustbin.'

‘But how do you get a girl to just lie there while you plunge a dagger into her heart? Or was she killed somewhere else and the body brought here and arranged like this? And where on earth would you come by precisely the same dagger as the old man's got at his side? That's a misericorde, isn't it? It's all so deliberate! Look at her hair. It's been arranged to fall like that. Her dress—someone's folded it. And what would Taro Tyler be doing wearing an outfit like that anyway? It looks medieval!'

I gasped as the connection struck me.

‘Only just caught on?' he asked acidly.

‘She's meant to look like—be a replica of—the original figure . . . the figure I was supposed to be inspecting with you this morning.'

‘I think so. Your firm sent some chaps last week to remove Sir John's alabaster wife,
Lady
Aliénore. She was in need of remedial treatment. We called your boss who said, ‘‘Awfully sorry, I shall be away on holiday in Puglia but—tell you what—I'll send you my assistant. She's young and highly qualified, sound art historian. Pretty girl too,” ' he added. ‘Recognise yourself? I had the remains of the first Lady Brancaster placed over there in the corner on that tarpaulin.'

He nodded towards the bell tower and to an ordered pile of pale-gleaming fragments rising from which I could make out a single white hand pointing forlornly heaven-wards.

I had looked calmly enough at the dead girl but, unaccountably, the sight of the dismembered stone limbs made me shudder.

‘I think I'm going to be sick,' I muttered and for a moment it seemed horribly likely.

‘No you're not!' he said. ‘Have a thought for the Suffolk Constabulary! They'll have quite enough bodily fluids to put under their microscopes without being distracted by extraneous and irrelevant contributions from the visiting architect. Pull yourself together, Miss . . . er . . .!'

He'd said it again! No one had told me to pull myself together since primary school. I breathed deeply, beginning sincerely to dislike Edward Hartest.

‘Ellie, call me Ellie,' I said impatiently.

‘Fine. And you might as well call me Edward. Now look here, Ellie, I want you to
note
a few things before the police get here. I'm certain that we can rely on them to use the full range of their forensic techniques but . . .'

‘I know what you're getting at. Not straightforward is it? It's as though someone's left a challenge. If it weren't such a gruesome thought I might even say—someone's playing a game.'

‘Yes, and I have a feeling I may know the identity of this joker! Do you see, over there, just below the scrolled edge—don't touch it for God's sake!—there's a smudge.'

‘A finger print,' I said firmly. ‘In blood!'

My fingers may have strayed unconsciously to my camera because he looked down at me and glowered. ‘Don't even think of it!' he said repressively. He paused, eyeing my Nikon. ‘You haven't already, have you? I'm afraid I must insist you hand over the film.'

‘Film?'

‘You know what I mean!' He waved an imperious hand at my camera. ‘Do whatever you have to do to disarm that contraption.'

The authoritative voice was one which was used to being obeyed.

‘Give me one good reason why I should!'

‘I'll give you two. You could sell the negative of this scene to the gutter press for thousands and the family can do without the publicity. Secondly, if you don't I shall take it out anyway and, clumsy as I am with modern equipment, I might well do your toy
irreparable
damage.'

With a display of truculence, I slowly removed the memory card and handed it over.

‘What on earth's this?'

‘It's what we use instead of film in the twenty-first century. There's nothing on there but exterior shots of Mendlesett . . . crumbling buttresses and worm-eaten woodwork. Only of value to me. Still, if it'll keep your hands off my equipment, the sacrifice is worth it.'

We looked at each other in silence for a moment until outside in the real world, one by one, cars crunched to a halt.

* * *

A Detective Inspector Jennings accompanied by a detective sergeant and a uniformed officer marched aggressively in through the door and up the aisle. He made his way towards us, holding up his credentials for our inspection, unnecessarily it seemed as The Hon Edward greeted him with an easy, ‘Oh, hallo there, Richard!'

After briefly establishing who I was and my role in the discovery of the body, the inspector courteously invited us to get out of the church by the fastest route and to avoid treading again on the carpet. I noticed that he spoke to Edward Hartest formally but with an underlying deference and I remembered—not only Honourable but also J.P.—Justice of
the
Peace, a local magistrate. This heir of an ancient family moved smoothly into action and, replying with just the right blend of formality and charm, informed the Inspector that we would leave the scene of crime clear for the investigating officers and go to await his questions in the comfort of the library at Tilbrook Hall where he trusted Richard would be able to join us later for coffee. Edward picked up my briefcase, put a chivalrous arm around my shoulders and led me out into the sunshine.

Through the thin cotton of my overalls I could feel the solicitous arm shaking perceptibly.

* * *

As we left, uniformed policemen were cordoning off the churchyard with plastic tape, one firmly standing his ground and denying access to an indignant, weather-beaten lady. ‘Young man, kindly move aside. I always do the flowers on a Wednesday!'

‘But not this Wednesday, I'm afraid, madam,' I heard him say cheerfully. ‘Church closed to the public until further notice.'

A middle-aged figure, bespectacled and distinguished, climbed out of his Volvo, an assistant carrying his medical bag. The pathologist? ‘Got a little local difficulty I hear, Edward?' he said, managing to sound both
amused
and concerned.

‘Local, Gordon, but I' m not so sure about little,' said Edward.

‘Am I the only outsider here?' I wondered resentfully.

* * *

The Hall was only five minutes walk from the church. A gable end was visible above the surrounding trees and the five shafted cluster of a chimney stack broke the skyline. Fifteenth century was my first impression. A fine house. A gracious and welcoming house. I was shown into the library and a tray of coffee was placed at my elbow while Edward went off to break the news of the death to his son Rupert, still abed, according to the housekeeper, and to his father, the current Lord Brancaster, up but feeling poorly.

I strolled around the library, admiring the ranks of leather-bound books, but finding not one I was tempted to take down and read. Fresh flowers in silver vases dotted the tables and a log fire smouldered in the grate of the stately fireplace. The latest model computer, perched almost apologetically on a table at the far side of the room was the only concession to the twenty-first century.

I passed the time taking from my briefcase the file on Tilbrook Church. Meticulously kept, the notes went back for thirty years. The
fabric
was in first class condition scrupulously maintained by the Hartest family. The damage to Aliénore had been caused by an overzealous Victorian insertion of iron cramps and I had been called in to advise on the restoration. Intrigued to see the original appearance of the tomb I spread out on the library table a set of black and white photographs we kept as a record in the file.

I looked and looked again at the pictures of the original Aliénore, intrigued and mystified. I compared them with the startling scene I had just witnessed and, unbelieving, I began to arrive at a shocking conclusion. And then there was the Latin inscription running round the tomb. This reinforced my disturbing theory. The words were an easily translatable, common enough formula until I got to the last word.

What I saw written there was a motive for murder. And it had been there, unnoticed, for nearly six hundred years.

* * *

I decided it would be a good idea to scramble out of my unglamorous overalls though the jeans and yellow T shirt this manoeuvre revealed were hardly more appropriate to the leather bindings, the gilded titles and the polished oak of these gracious surroundings. Even so, I was more suitably dressed than the
young
man who now staggered in through the doorway. Rupert Hartest looked every inch the bereaved fiancé. Stunned, inarticulate, dressed in a white bathrobe, his black hair flopping unbrushed and still damp from his shower, he stood and stared at me.

He was very good looking in a brooding dark way and very young. I guessed that he was probably in his mid twenties and a year or two younger than me. He joined me at the table and listened in silent horror to the story I had to tell him, dabbing his eyes with the trailing end of his bathrobe. When I fell silent he sniffed, and whispered gruffly, ‘Oh, Taro! Consistent to the last! You silly little trollop!' He paused for a moment, smiled a crooked smile and added, ‘But what an exit!'

Deeply puzzled, I pretended not to have heard and said, ‘Your father thinks he knows who's responsible . . .'

‘Theo Tindall,' he said bitterly, ‘that's who he's got in his sights. The photographer. Taro's manager, friend, ex-partner and purveyor of strange substances to Taro and others—including myself.' He shook his head as though he could shake out memories. ‘Hateful man! He was staying with us too, just for the week—at Taro's invitation of course. Perhaps I don't need to say that he's disappeared. Room's empty though his things are still lying around all over the floor. Mrs. Rose, our housekeeper, says he and Taro went out together in his car
early
this morning at about seven o'clock.'

I told him about the bloody finger print on the tomb.

His relief was obvious. ‘Well, they'll nail him then, no problem.' He paused for a moment, thoughtful, and then added, ‘Funny though . . . what possible motive could there have been? He had every reason to keep Taro in good health. He made a lot of money out of her. He discovered her and flogged her talents to the media. Took a large cut of the proceeds. He didn't seem to resent her getting engaged to me—he introduced us in fact and with all the publicity she could whip up over the society wedding he, they, stood to make even more. Odd, that . . .'

The scene in the church was beginning to make sense in the context Rupert was setting out. The whole thing had been staged for a photographer's shoot. No wonder my own finger had twitched on the shutter! The display had been devised for exactly that reaction.

I decided to confide in him. ‘Look, Rupert, would it be too distressing if I were to show you a photograph I took at the scene? The shot that this Theo had so carefully staged? Your father doesn't know I took it, by the way. He expressly told me not to.'

‘I can imagine why! But, yes, Ellie, it would be distressing . . . though I think I ought to see it if you have it handy.'

I took the card from my pocket, a cable
from
my briefcase and offered up my camera. I looked doubtfully at the computer and back at Rupert.

‘I can manage,' he said. ‘Allow me.'

In a few swift gestures he had transferred the image to his computer screen.

He studied the scene with stony face, running a delicate forefinger over the spilling golden hair on the screen. I fetched one of the black and white photos of the original tomb figures and we compared the two. The likeness was startling. Rupert made me go over again the details of the appearance of the corpse. ‘The dagger,' he said finally, pointing, ‘There's a real one in a trophy of arms in the drawing room, the twin of this. I looked in before I came to the library. It's missing. A misericorde, you're right. And I bet if I looked in the chest on the landing I'd find that a long white nightgown and a pair of white satin ballet shoes have gone missing too.'

‘But do you think she changed into them willingly? Was Taro part of the impersonation, do you think?'

‘Certain of it! Just the sort of off-beat humour she went in for. Bet it was all her idea. I can imagine what they were both up to! What a laugh! Dress up as the first Lady Brancaster and pose, with a lot of bosom showing of course, on the family tomb which somebody has conveniently cleared for them. Theo snaps away and flogs the result to . . . oh, any one
of
a hundred papers. You can imagine the headlines! Blast them!'

‘But wouldn't she have been a bit more circumspect . . . I mean . . . have held off from offending the ancient family she was about to marry into? Surely?'

Rupert snorted. ‘She had no respect for that sort of thing. She refused to use or acknowledge Grandpa's title. She was the type who cheer when hereditary peers are kicked out of the House of Lords. I've always thought it was Taro and her sarcastic tongue that gave Grandfather his heart attack.'

‘Is that possible?'

He grimaced at the memory. ‘It happened at her first dinner here. She said something deliberately calculated to get up Grandfather's nose and then announced that she and I were engaged to be married and he'd better get used to hearing her opinions. She declared that she'd make every effort to talk me out of taking up the title when the time came. Who on earth cared about such things these days? And even if I did take it up she'd make sure any children we had were daughters so it would die out. Bluffing, of course, but the old chap's heard of designer babies and DNA and all that and I think he really believed she could do it. Poor old bloke sent for his doctor and went to his room. He hasn't come downstairs since. Doc says he's got a heart condition and has to avoid stress. He's over eighty now.
Seems
a bit strange in these days perhaps,' Rupert looked at me, calculating, wondering whether he need explain, ‘but he really is obsessed by—lost in—family history. Heraldry, pedigrees . . . His family motto . . . our family motto . . . is
Who dies, if Hartest live!'