The Ellie Hardwick Mysteries (6 page)

I must have looked bewildered because with an apologetic smile he said, ‘I suppose it means: To hell with everyone else! Who cares—so long as the Hartests survive. Nice sentiment!'

Rupert's eye flicked to a photograph on the mantelpiece and I went over to look at it. Three generations of the Hartest men were lined up on the lawn, smiling at the camera.

‘There you see, until the last few weeks Grandpa was always fighting fit—literally fighting fit! He was a commando and kept himself in shape. Tried to teach me and Dad all his skills. More successful with Dad—he was in the Coldstream.'

‘Are you a soldier too?'

‘I was for about eighteen months. Tried it for Grandpa's sake. Went through the motions. University then Sandhurst. I didn't impress them with my war-like spirit, I'm afraid. I got out. It wasn't for me. I'm more the arty type like my mother was. She died five years ago.'

‘And in spite of all Taro had done, you were still prepared to go ahead with the marriage?' I couldn't hide my incredulity and disapproval.

His
face softened. ‘You never knew her, did you? It's hard for those who didn't know her to understand. She was magic . . . well, she magicked me anyway. She was a bit mad, ruthless even and she could be a ferocious little bitch (I knew it). But the magic made all that of no concern. Made! Christ! It continues to work! She's gone—but I can't believe it.

‘I loved her. And there was another reason. She was pregnant. Not very, but enough to make us name an earlyish date.' He sighed. ‘No illegitimate children were ever acknowledged in the Hartest family for six hundred years. Not going to start now, though Taro wouldn't have cared I suppose.'

He fell silent, deep in thought, and then he began to fidget. ‘Look, Dad'll be down soon and he won't be amused to see me still in my bathrobe. He thinks I'm pretty dissolute . . . I'll just go upstairs and get kitted out. Stay here, I won't be a minute. Oh, and better turn that computer off.'

I was left alone but for the company of a Jacobean Hartest whose harsh white face under a black periwig stared down at me watchful, austere and calculating from its gilded frame. I felt a sadness so oppressive that I put my head in my hands and tried to force back tears. Two innocent lives had been lost on that marble slab this morning. The girl and her unborn child were unknown to me but I mourned them. And, underlying the sorrow,
was
a barely understood suspicion of the Hartest men and their motives. I looked at my watch and wondered how much longer I would have to wait here. I found I really didn't want to have any further dealings with this family. Three generations of trained killers were loose in this house and one of them was ruthless enough to have got rid of an inconvenient little trollop. I looked again at the photograph of the table tomb, at the frozen features and flowing hair of the lovely Aliénore and I understood that an ancient tragedy had sent its echo on through the centuries to be replayed in front of my eyes this spring morning.

* * *

How soon could I get away from this place? I listened anxiously for the sound of a police car. My thoughts were redirected by Rupert. He slipped back into the room, smelling of herbs and wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a white tee shirt. He tapped a finger on one of the photographs of the Lady Aliénore.

‘Always puzzled me this,' he said. ‘I've spent hours in church on Sundays looking, enchanted, at this figure and there's something about her I've never understood. Dad says you're an art historian? Well, tell me, Ellie,' he indicated the flowing hairstyle of the stone image, ‘in all the other table tombs I've seen the ladies have their hair gathered up into a
head
dress . . . Why is this one different?'

Should I tell him? Would he want to hear? I've never been able to keep knowledge to myself. ‘That's the key to the whole mystery, Rupert,' I said. He looked genuinely at a loss so I went on, ‘In these times it was the fashion for women to have their hair dressed and caught up in concealing coifs . . . if you were a respectable, married woman that is.'

‘But Aliénore was all that! What are you trying to say?'

‘That in those days this sumptuous spread of tresses was seen as the outward badge—the emblem if you like—of a common prostitute. Whoever put this here knew it and wanted succeeding generations to know it too. Sir John was announcing this to the world in sculpture. Vilifying his wife for eternity. An obscure but neat way of getting his own back for what he saw as his wife's shortcomings.'

‘Interesting theory but a bit thin, I think. Impossible to read that much into a hairstyle!'

‘Perhaps, but there's something else. Look here . . . and here . . .' I pointed to the inscription which ran around the sides of the tomb. ‘Know any Latin, Rupert?'

‘Enough,' he said. ‘This at any rate—I've known it for years.' He started to translate the lines about Sir John, his date of death and age at death.

‘It's the short statement about Aliénore that's important,' I said.

‘Easy,'
said Rupert. ‘
Hic iacet Alienora Iohannis Hartestis uxor.
That means Here Lies Aliénore, wife of John Hartest.'

‘But that's not the end of the sentence. My firm is nothing if not thorough and back in the past someone must have thought he was not doing his job properly if he failed to check out the condition of the fourth side of the tomb.'

‘But you can't see it. It's hidden—it's right up against a half height run of panelling.'

‘As I said—we're thorough! Someone must have taken down a bit of the panelling to check for damp and observe the north face and he recorded what he saw on a photo—this one.'

‘There's a bit more Latin,' said Rupert, surprised. ‘But you've got me this time. I can't translate that.'

‘I can,' I said slowly. ‘It's a continuation of the inscription about Aliénore. The whole thing reads:
Hic iacet Alienora Iohannis Hartestis uxor et meretrix.
A slap in the face from beyond the grave.'

‘Ellie—please stop showing off and tell me—what the hell does
et meretrix
mean?'

‘It means ‘‘and harlot''. It says, ‘‘Aliénore—wife and harlot.'' It means, Rupert, that Sir John considered his wife a—what did you say earlier?—a silly little trollop.'

* * *

We looked at each other steadily for a
moment.
The fire crackled. Somewhere a clock struck eleven.

‘What are you saying?' Rupert's voice was smooth and quiet.

‘I'm saying that for some men—for some families—the idea of the purity of the line was very important. We'll never know whether your ancestor went as far as killing his lovely young wife—not unknown in those days—but the legitimacy of his offspring would have been vital to him. If Aliénore had been pregnant—inexplicably pregnant—and don't forget that these old knights were quite frequently away from home, for years on end sometimes, then horrors might ensue on his return. If he suspected that a child born to his wife was not his, he might well have murdered her. And the child.'

He listened without comment. We both knew I was really talking of Taro.

‘Of course, we wouldn't have a problem nowadays,' he said confidently. ‘DNA testing will sort out any paternity question.'

‘After the baby's born,' I said, ‘and by then it's too late if it's been accepted into a family which declares it never recognises illegitimate children.'

‘You're saying that Taro was killed for a family reason. By
me,
in fact?'

Before I could answer Edward strode into the room. He had changed into a black jersey and light linen trousers. I stared. I had been
too
quick to write him off as a waxed jacket and wellies type. He was slim and tall with stronger features but the same thick floppy hair as his son. An impressive man.

‘Dad!' Rupert greeted him. ‘How did he take it? Is he all right?'

‘Of course. What would you expect? He took it well. His heart may be a bit dicky but there's nothing wrong with his mental equipment. Steady as ever. He grasped the situation at once.'

‘Thank God for that! But Grandpa's going to need all his bottle if what your architect here has worked out turns out to be correct.' He threw a challenging smile at me. ‘She's solved our crime! Move over Dick Jennings—you've been superseded by an art historian! And I grieve to tell you, Dad, it's down to you or me! Eeny, meeny, miney, mo, catch a killer by his toe! She's trying to decide which one of us did it! Come and look at this!'

Edward smiled bleakly and came to join us at the table. I wasn't amused. If my guesses were correct, with Rupert on one side and his father on the other, I was sitting shoulder to shoulder with a murderer. But on which side? A further chilling thought occurred to me—could they both be involved? At Edward's invitation I went haltingly through my theory again.

‘A family thing. Yes, I believe you could be right, Ellie,' Edward said. ‘But have you
considered
that if Rupert is not the father of the child . . .' He turned to Rupert and said almost apologetically, ‘Oh, come on, let's face it, Rupe, old son, you were out of your skull for most of the time till a few weeks ago and I don't think you had a clue about what was going on in Taro's life . . . then someone else is the father. That prat Theo what's his name? Imagine—Taro tells him she's marrying Rupert and giving up the modelling business. He's about to lose his cash cow and his prospective child. ‘‘Okay,'' he tells her, ‘‘I'll bow out of your life but how about one last shoot to send me on my way? A golden handshake from the glossies . . . I've had a terrific idea for a location . . . And we'll be able to stuff it up these Hartest prigs! Imagine their faces when they see the pics!'' How does that sound? Revenge killing? Spite? Crime of passion?'

He was interrupted by Mrs. Rose who just had time to announce Detective Inspector Jennings when he came striding into the room. Settling down with a cup of coffee and placing his mobile phone importantly on the table in front of him along with his notepad, he smiled round at the small group, gathering our attention. My opinion of the police is not high but I thought that this inspector might just raise it a notch or two. He looked keen and energetic and clever. I just wished he'd been a little less impressed by the Hon Edward.

‘I'll
be needing your individual statements, of course, and when I've finished what I have to say, I'll send in an officer to take them. There have been developments,' he announced with satisfaction. His phone rang as though on cue and he snatched it up and listened eagerly.

‘You've got him? Good lad! Where?' He looked at us and, involving us in his triumph, ‘In his flat? You don't say! He must have burned some rubber down the A12! Flinging his passport into a bag? This guy's no Ronnie Biggs is he? Get the prints did you? What's his story then?' He listened avidly, occasionally chortling, occasionally cursing gently and finally switched off.

Stretching out his legs and leaning back in his chair, he announced, ‘I'm pleased to say we've made an arrest! My London colleagues have picked up Theo Tindall in his Islington flat and charged him with the murder of Taro Tyler.' He looked at his watch. ‘Has to be a record!' Then he added thoughtfully, ‘Almost seems too easy . . .'

We didn't interrupt him and he went on, ‘We got a statement from Mrs. Wentworth at Parsonage Cottage. Very good witness. She keeps an eye out for visitors to the church, in fact she unlocks at six a.m. and locks up again at dusk. She thought it was odd that tourists would come roaring up at seven so she took down their details, car make and number, the
lot.
Two people went into the church carrying a couple of bags. She noticed the girl was dressed like a bride and then she recognised them. Those guests at the Hall who'd giggled all the way through Matins last Sunday. They'd been sitting in a pew up by the table tomb. Gossip was that the girl was a model. Well that made sense didn't it? Catching the morning light for one of those fancy photos. Mrs. Wentworth went off watch. She noticed that the car drove away half an hour later, going rather fast but then young men always drive like that don't they?'

‘We noticed a bloody finger print on the tomb,' Edward said.

‘Yes, we've got it. That'll be checked by the morning but he admits it's his. Swears he didn't murder her but his story's a bit thin! Says they were all lined up for the shot, she spread out on the tomb in her draperies, when the light shifted and he decided he needed a different camera and a bit of extra equipment from the car. He nipped out to get it and came back minutes later to find her dead. Denies taking the dagger to the church as part of the props and says the first he'd seen of it was the handle sticking out of the body. Says he tried to pull it out. People will do that! Can't seem to keep their hands off. Yanking the knife out kills the poor bugger they're trying to save as often as not . . . Well, if he did there'll be prints there as well.'

He
paused again, thinking aloud. ‘Neat, all sewn up, you might say. Yes, very neat and tidy . . . Anyway, he got some blood on his hand, panicked and ran off. Says he felt sure someone was in the church watching him and he thought he might be next for the chop. It all sounds so feeble, it could just be the truth . . . We'll need a motive, of course. If he did take the dagger from the Hall, then it was premeditated. Her manager, I understand? I'd feel easier if we knew why he'd done it. Wondered if you . . .?'

‘Oh, yes, Richard. I think we can supply you with a motive,' said Edward smoothly.

* * *

The sound of a shot from the floor above wiped the triumph from his face.