The Legacy of Lochandee (14 page)

‘Yes,' Nick nodded slowly. ‘I see how it is you feel. I don't suppose there's much hope, when there's no written proof?'

He said much the same to Conan, when he arrived back at the garage half an hour later and recounted the events of the day.

‘You mean to tell me Fiona Sinclair is going all that way on her own, on behalf of my mother?'

‘Well, yes …' Nick looked uncertainly at Conan, noting the pulse pounding in his square jaw, the eyes flashing – sure signs of his displeasure. ‘No need to be getting steamed up about it, boyo. Not charging your mother for her time, is she, nor anything else? Truth is, Fiona doesn't want to worry her. Just wants to see justice done, doesn't she now. There's a rare female, she is – attractive, intelligent, genuinely kind as well …'

‘Aren't you a bit newly married to be admiring other women?' Conan asked irritably.

‘There's all of those things, Bridie is, and more besides.' Nick grinned, relaxing a bit after his earlier fury. ‘Just wishing I could be having her to myself, I am. I like your family very much, old boy, but wishing they were anywhere but in the same house as us. Bridie … well, she gets so inhibited. Cramps my style a bit, I confess, when there's young Ewan eyeing my every move.'

‘Aye, I can imagine,' Conan nodded, but his expression told Nick his mind was still on Fiona Sinclair and her proposed trip.

As soon as Nick had left, Conan went into the flat and grabbed himself a sandwich, then had a quick wash and put on a change of clothes. Smoothing down his damp hair, he set off to see Fiona.

He had reckoned without Fiona's stubborn determination to do things her way. She was surprised to see him standing on her front doorstep and she could not suppress a faint colour rising into her cheeks. It was the first time he had called at her house since the night of the wedding. He came straight to the point, unwilling to admit that the memory of that evening had come flooding back when he saw her in her own surroundings once more. It made him more grim than ever.

‘Nick tells me you're setting yourself up as a private investigator …'

‘I'm not doing any such thing!' Fiona's cheeks grew hot now, but with anger rather than embarrassment. ‘We need proof that the vase belongs to your mother, or at the very least we need to prove there is some doubt as to the rightful owner. I can't just sit back and let someone else claim it and I know your mother is worried about running up legal fees, or seeking publicity. I understand that, so just let me do things my way.'

‘And what if this woman turns out to be really nasty? Or worse? Mark was always on edge and uneasy about her.'

‘Och, don't be silly. She may be acting in good faith, or at worst she may prove to be a greedy and malicious person, but that will not harm me.'

‘You can't be certain about that. I'm coming with you. Nick says you were planning to travel down by train tomorrow. Well, you can forget about that. We'll go by car, but I can't pick you up before 11. There's a few arrangements I have to make before I go.' He did not wait for Fiona to agree or disagree with his plans. He simply turned on his heel and left her staring after him.

‘Well!' she gasped as the door shut firmly behind him. ‘Well!' She sagged against the door. Seconds later she stood erect, her small chin raised defiantly. No one told her what to do, least of all Conan Maxwell. She would go on an earlier train; in fact she would go tonight, if she could get a connection. She could go part of the way at least and be gone from Lochandee long before Conan came back.

Chapter Fourteen

W
HEN CONAN ARRIVED AT
Fiona's house an hour earlier than he had stated he was surprised to find the door locked. Up the street, he saw Carol weeding her immaculate little garden, while farther on there were several of the villagers chatting at the door of the grocery store, as well as three men at the smiddy. He frowned, feeling conspicuous in his best suit. He turned the car and drove slowly up to Carol's garden gate.

‘Have you seen Fiona this morning, Carol?'

‘No, sorry. Oh! Come to think of it, she called in at Beth's when I was there last night. She was on her way to catch a train, I think. Beth said she wouldn't be back for a few days. Shall I give her a message when I see her again?' She eyed Conan's smart figure in the dark suit, tall and broad shouldered. For a moment, emotions she had believed long-buried stirred in her. Then she looked up into Conan's face and saw the cold anger in his eyes. ‘I-I … Was Fiona expecting you?' she faltered.

‘Apparently not!' He drove away furious with himself, and with Fiona Sinclair. If she left last night, there was certainly no point in his driving all the way to Derbyshire on his own. He would not admit to the feeling of frustration and, when he returned to his grubby flat above the garage, he found it difficult to be civil to Nick's grinning banter.

‘And if you give one more of those smug … satisfied nods I'll – I'll …'

‘Give me a black eye, old boy?' Nick's grin widened. ‘And you think I'll stand here and let you. Come on, Conan, admit it! For the first time in your life, you've met your match with Miss Fiona Sinclair. She has a mind of her own, she's capable and she's every bit as intelligent as you are – and what's more, she's all woman!'

‘She's a bossy, interfering, stubborn female!'

‘My, she does get under your skin,' Nick chuckled gleefully, and ducked back under the lorry he was working on, leaving Conan to mumble angrily on his way to the flat to change into his work clothes.

Fiona had arrived late in the evening at Sheffield and stayed there overnight, but by ten the following morning, she had made her way to the little Derbyshire town and Mr Murray's address. She realised at once it was not a house belonging to an impoverished family. It was an imposing detached villa built in the local grey stone of the DerbyshirePeaks. It had a wide drive and a well-kept garden. She glimpsed outhouses to one side and guessed there must be a garden to the back of the property as well. She waited until the door was opened by a cherubic-looking little woman then she dismissed the taxi driver, telling him she would welcome the short walk back into town after she had concluded her business.

On closer scrutiny, Fiona wondered whether the woman's red eyes were due to a bout of weeping or whether she had a very bad cold. She explained that Mr Murray had undertaken some business while in Scotland and she had travelled down after learning of his death, and because letters to him had remained unanswered.

‘It'll be Miss Pierce you'll need to see, Miss …' The woman gave a hiccupping sniff and Fiona realised she was distressed.

‘Perhaps I've come at a bad time?' she said gently. ‘It's just that my business is rather urgent. Can you tell me where I could find Miss Pierce, please?'

‘Her lives here now. Her's taken over everything …' There was more than a sniff this time. It was clear the little woman was upset. ‘She's gone sh-shopping.'

‘I see.' Fiona bit her lip. Normally she would not have come all this way without making an appointment but she had judged an element of surprise was needed. ‘You can come in and wait if you like, Miss. Mr Murray … he n-never turned anybody away without a cup of tea or something …' She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

‘Well, if you're sure it will be all right, I'd prefer to wait. And a cup of tea would be really welcome, but only if you'll join me. If you don't mind me saying so, you do seem rather upset and my mum always believed a cup of tea soothed a troubled spirit.'

The woman's expression lightened for a moment, and she indicated Fiona should step into the sunny porch with its Italian mosaic floor. A large green plant stood on a porcelain pedestal in one corner. She opened a heavy door with two stained-glass panes and Fiona followed her into a wide hall with three polished oak doors on either side, and a short flight of stairs at the far end. A beautiful brass-faced grandfather clock ticked away the minutes and beside it was an elaborately carved oak settle, which even Fiona recognised as extremely old, and probably valuable. The woman would have shown her into a large sitting room, but Fiona said quickly, ‘I wouldn't feel I was being such a nuisance if I could join you in the kitchen? I don't want to keep you back if you have work to do.'

‘Work …' The woman's voice broke on the word and she busied herself with boiling the kettle on a large anthracite stove, which seemed to take up almost one wall of the large sunny kitchen. ‘We'll have no work soon, no h-home either, if – if she has her way.'

‘Have you worked for Mr Murray a long time?'

‘Aye. I started here when I was 13, working for old Mistress Murray.' Her eyes took on a sad, faraway look. ‘There were three maids then – well, two and Cook, but we didn't have 'lectric things like the washer. It's marvellous.'

‘And you stayed on after you were married?' Fiona prompted, noting the plain gold band on the work-roughened hand.

‘Aye. My George was gardener's boy, then second gardener. Now there's only the two of us …' She bit back a sob. ‘And we'll soon be gone. We would have understood if Mr Murray had sold the house … after the lads were k-killed in the war, Mrs Murray being so poorly and everything. “No, no,” says he. “We shall never leave this house. It has been in my family for three generations. Besides, Bunty …” He always called George by his surname because he liked it better. “Besides, Bunty,” he says, “you and Martha have been here all your lives and I promise you'll have your home in the cottage as long as you live.” There it is, Miss, down at the bottom there, through the trees.' She drew Fiona to look through one of the heavy sash windows, while she poured their tea and set out home-baked scones and a fruit cake.

‘Goodness! The garden is huge.' Fiona was surprised. Almost screened by trees and shrubs at the far end, she could just see the roof and chimney of a small stone cottage.

‘Aye, it's big, but George doesn't grow as much as he used to do when the lads were here, and the other maids lived in. Our little patch opens onto the back lane …' Suddenly, as though overcome, she sank onto a kitchen chair and began to weep, striving for control, but unable to stifle the sobs.

‘Oh, Mrs Bunty! Whatever is the matter? Have I … I mean, would you like me to leave …?'

‘Oh no, Miss, no! I'm that s-sorry, an' and I shouldn't be bothering you with my troubles.'

‘Sometimes it helps to talk about your worries,' Fiona said uncertainly.

‘She … she only told me j-just before you c-came. She says she's going to sell everything. This house, and our cottage, and all Mr Murray's lovely things …' She tried to stem the tears and fished frantically in her apron pocket for her handkerchief.

‘Do you mean Miss Pierce?' Fiona asked, her grey eyes widening.

‘Aye.'

‘But surely she can't do that while Mrs Murray is alive …'

‘She's evil! She's always been jealous. Whenever she came to visit, she made Mrs Murray ill, and it was worse after the lads were killed. She never let any of us forget. On and on she went. Mr Murray was glad to go away on his business when she came, but then she was terrible. She kept telling Mrs Murray that Bobby and Mark had murdered innocent children with their bombs. She went on and on about it. She said that's why they'd had to die. There's no wonder my poor Mistress nearly went off her head, with her ranting all the time.'

‘Surely no one would be so cruel!'

‘'Tis true, Miss. I tried to tell her she was upsetting her own sister, but she said I was nothing but a common servant and should keep my mouth shut. “Martha is more than a servant, Elvira.” Mrs Murray told her. “She's been my friend here since I married. She loved my boys like her own.” 'Tis true, Miss. George and me, we were never blessed with children. We loved Bobby and Mark …' Her voice broke.

‘I'm so sorry, Mrs Bunty.' Fiona leaned forward and patted her arm. ‘Mark stayed several times with friends of mine in Scotland.'

‘With Master Conan? You know Conan?' Martha Bunty's eyes brightened and Fiona felt a pang of regret. Perhaps she should have allowed Conan to accompany her after all. ‘He stayed here once or twice with Mark, and another friend called Nicholas.'

‘Nick! You knew Nick too? He's married to Conan's sister now. Bridie is a very good friend to me.'

‘Aah! I'm ever so glad to hear that. I'm pleased some of our brave young men came home safely.' She trembled visibly; indeed it was more of a shudder. ‘I shouldn't be talking so much, and you a stranger, Miss, b-but you just arrived when I was upset, and now I don't feel you're a stranger no more …'

‘I know what you mean,' Fiona said softly. ‘It was through Conan Maxwell that I met Mr Murray. My mum died some months ago and Mr Murray advised me about her furniture and other items. He was very kind and understanding. He … er, he was going to sell a vase for Conan's mother. Do you know anything about a vase, or his work …?' Fiona felt like a traitor, taking advantage by prying.

‘Mr Murray kept most of his work in the old stables. They're next to the garage at the side of the house. He always kept it locked up.
She
has the keys now.' She frowned thoughtfully. ‘I remember there was a man came to collect a wooden box soon after Mr Murray returned from his journey up north. I know that, because he came into the house and I took them some coffee. They were laughing because it said “cattle drenches” in black letters on the sides of the box and he said it was the first time he'd ever taken such a thing to London and he thought it would be worth the trouble.'

‘That was probably Mrs Maxwell's vase then,' Fiona said slowly. ‘It was packed in a box like that to keep it safe. Do you know who he was – this man?'

‘No, Miss. I'd never seen him before. I know he worked for auctioneers in London and he was going to America to see a client after he had delivered the box.'

‘I see. That's why I need to see Miss Pierce. You see the vase belongs to Mrs Maxwell and it's quite valuable, but somehow there's been a mistake and the auctioneers think it's part of Mr Murray's estate.'

‘Can't you just tell them it's a mistake, Miss?'

‘They'll not accept my word. I am hoping Miss Pierce will tell them the truth. I believe she is an executor – the person who has taken charge of Mr Murray's affairs since his death?'

‘She has, oh she has! That's why she says we've to leave.' Mrs Bunty's eyes filled with fresh tears. ‘Mrs Murray was supposed to see to everything. The solicitor said so. When he told Miss Pierce she screamed at him and said he hadn't carried out her brother-in-law's instructions.'

‘Did he know Mr and Mrs Murray?'

‘Oh yes. He was a friend. He often came to dinner when Mrs Murray was well.'

‘So what did he do?'

‘He walked out when she kept shouting that her sister was insane and couldn't make decisions. He said she was the one who was – was un … unbalanced? The next day, she got the police here and said Mrs Murray had attacked her with a knife – here, in this very kitchen. I know she didn't. She wouldn't. She couldn't. She's as gentle as a lamb. She was standing at the table, at that end. She was chopping vegetables for some soup when Miss Pierce came in. I had my back to them, peeling potatoes at the sink there. The next thing I knows she's screaming like a stuck pig and there's blood streaming from her arm. She grabbed a towel and phoned for the police to take away my poor mistress.'

‘But surely Mrs Murray denied it?'

‘She fainted. She never did like the sight of blood. When she came round, she said she didn't feel well and then the police came and Miss Pierce sent me home, telling me to stay away. George saw them bundling Mrs Murray into a sort of black van and she was crying. He tried to talk to her but the policemen shoved him away.'

‘That's terrible!' Fiona said in disbelief.

Mrs Bunty looked at her, then lowered her eyes. She began to speak and stopped. Her hands were twisting knots in her neatly pressed apron but she seemed unaware of what she was doing. Then, as though making up her mind, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘She's evil. It was her fault Mr Murray took pneumonia. That's what killed him. Shock, and lying all night on the cold floor, the doctor said. He had fallen on a patch of grease outside his workshop. He often worked in the evenings. He was on his way back into the house for the night. We-we went to see him in hospital – George and me. She doesn't know. She told us we weren't allowed to visit. He could scarce get breath, but he told us to stay. Slowly – ever so slowly – he told us how she dragged him inside. He had pleaded with her to phone the doctor, or get George. She wouldn't. She kept on dragging him then she left him all night on the hall floor. I found him there next morning when I came in to do the fires and cook his breakfast. He – he was in terrible pain and he kept going unconscious.'

‘But where was Miss Pierce?'

‘Upstairs in her room. So was Mrs Murray. She'd been keeping ever so well until Miss Pierce came back and said she was moving in permanently to take care of her.' Martha Bunty gave a contemptuous sniff. ‘She insisted she had to take a sleeping pill every night. She told George and me neither of them had heard Mr Murray come into the house. She said he must have slipped on the polished floor.'