The Oxmarket Aspal Murder Mystery (8 page)

              I uttered a few phrases and left with the impression of a genial Dr Hogg and his tongue-tied, apprehensive wife.

              So much for the Hoggs, where Faith Roberts had gone to work on Tuesday mornings.

10

              Norbert House was a solidly built Victorian house approached by a long untidy drive overgrown with weeds.  It had not originally been considered a big house, but was now big enough to be inconvenient domestically.

              I asked the young Polish woman who opened the front door for Lady Osborne.

              She stared at me and then said:  “I do not know.  Please to come.  Miss Bird perhaps?”

              She left me standing in the hall. It was in an estate agent’s phrase ‘
fully furnished
’ – with a good many curios from various parts of the world.  Nothing looked very clean or well dusted.

              Presently the Polish girl reappeared.  She said:  “Please to come,” and showed him into a chilly little room with a large desk.  On the mantelpiece was a big and rather evil-looking copper coffee pot with an enormous hooked spout like a large hooked nose.

              The door opened behind me and a girl came into the room.

              “My mother is lying down,” she said.  “Can I do anything for you?”

              “You are Miss Osborne?”

              “No, my name is Chloe Bird.  Lord Osborne is my stepfather.”

              She was a plain girl of about thirty, large and awkward.  She had watchful eyes. 

              “I was anxious to hear what you could tell me about Faith Roberts who used to work here.”

              She stared at me.  “Faith?  But she’ dead.”

              “I am aware of that,” I said gently.  “But I would like to hear about her.”

              “Oh.  Is it for her life insurance or something?”

              “It’s got nothing to do with life insurance, it is a question of fresh evidence.”

              “Fresh evidence.  You mean – her death?”

              “I’ve been asked by the solicitors for the defence to make an inquiry on Marcus Dye’s behalf.”

              Staring at me, she asked:  “But didn’t he do it?”

              “The jury thought he did. But juries have been known to make a mistake.”

              “Then it was really someone else who killed her?”

              “It may have been.”

              “Who?”  She asked abruptly.

              “That,” I said, “is the question.”

              “I don’t understand at all.”

              “No?  But you can tell me something about Faith Roberts, can’t you?”

              “I suppose so,” she said rather reluctantly.  “What do you want to know?”

              “Well – to begin with – what did you think of her?”

              “Why – nothing in particular. She was just like anybody else.”

              “Talkative or silent?  Curious or reserved?  Happy or miserable?  A nice woman or a not very nice woman?”

              Chloe Bird reflected.  “She worked well but she talked a lot.  Sometimes she said some rather strange things.  Personally, I didn’t really like her very much.”

              The door opened and the Polish girl came into the room. “You’re mother say: please to bring.”

              “My mother wants Mr Handful to go upstairs to see her?”

              “Yes, please, thank you.”

              Chloe Bird looked at me doubtfully.  “Will you go up and see my mother?”

              “Of course.”

              Chloe Bird led the way across the hall and up the stairs and said inconsequently, “I wish the agency would send us someone who could speak more than just broken English.”

              I ignored her statement, reflecting that Chloe Bird seemed rather ignorant in her views, ignorant to the point of gaucheness.

              The room upstairs was crowded with knick-knacks. It was the room of a woman who had travelled a great deal and who had been determined wherever she went to have a souvenir of the place.  Most of the souvenirs were clearly made for the delight and exploitation of tourists.  There were too many sofas and tables and chairs in the room, too little air and in the midst of it all was Lady Osborne.

              Lady Osborne seemed a small woman – a pathetic small woman in a large room. That was the effect.  But she was not really quite as small as she decided to appear.

              She was reclining very comfortably on a sofa and near her were books, a mini I-pad with headphone, a glass of
Prosecco
and a box of chocolates.

              “You must forgive me for not getting up,” she said brightly, “but the doctor does insist on my resting every day and everyone scolds me if I don’t do what I’m told.”

              I took her proffered soft hand and shook it gently.

              Behind me, uncompromising, Chloe said:  “He wants to talk about Faith Roberts.”

              The delicate hand that had lain so passively in mine tightened and I was reminded for a moment of the talon of a bird.  Not really a piece of delicate china but a scratchy predatory claw.

              “Don’t be so ridiculous, Chloe,” Lady Osborne said, laughing slightly.  “Who is Faith Roberts?”

              “Oh, Mum, for God’s sake.  She worked for us.  You know, the one who was murdered.”

              Lady Osborne closed her eyes and shivered.

              “Stop it.  It was all so horrid.  I felt nervous for weeks afterwards.  Poor woman, but so stupid to keep that amount of money under the floor.  She ought to have put it in the bank.  Of course I remember and I just don’t like thinking about it.”

              “He wants to know about her, Mum,” Chloe said stolidly.

              “I’m curious, Mr Handful.  Please, take a seat.  Keldine Hogg just telephoned to say that she had just met a private detective, and she described you.  And then, when Agata described you, I told her immediately to send for you.  I must admit though, you are more handsome in the flesh.”

              “Thank you,” I smiled.  “I understand that Faith Roberts worked here on Wednesdays and she was murdered on a Wednesday.  So, I just wanted to know whether she had been here that day.”

              “I can’t remember. It was a while ago.”

              “So, you can’t remember if she said anything out of the ordinary that day?”

              “She was a chatterbox,” Lady Osborne said with distaste.  “Sometimes to the detriment of her work.  But, I never really listened and I bet she never would have guessed that she was about to be robbed and murdered.”

              “No, probably not,” I agreed.  “Do you read the local Sunday paper, Lady Osborne?”

              Her blue eyes opened wide.

              “We have the
Sunday Times
?”

              “Not the
Oxmarket Sunday Echo
?”             

              I paused but nobody said anything.

              Lady Osborne sighed and half closed her eyes.  “It was all very upsetting,” she said.  “That horrible lodger of hers.  He wasn’t the complete ticket, you know.  Apparently he was fairly well educated, too.  Which makes it even worse, doesn’t it?”

              “Does it?”

              “Of course.  It was such a brutal crime.”

              “The police never found the weapon,” I said firmly.

              “I expect he threw it into the pond or something.”

              “The police dragged the pond,” I said, “I read it in the report.”

              Lady Osborne held her head in her hands in a dramatic fashion.  “Please, my head.  I hate to think of such horrible things.”

              Her daughter turned on me fiercely.  “Please, Mr Handful.  You must leave.  My mother is finding this all extreme distressing.”

              “I’m sorry,” I said, rising to my feet.  “But all I am trying to do is to make sure an innocent man doesn’t spend the rest of his time in gaol.”

              Lady Osborne raised herself up on one elbow.  “But of course he did it!”

              “I’m not so sure,” I responded, shaking my head.

              I left the room quickly but as I went down the stairs Chloe came after me.  She caught up with me in the hall.

              “What do you mean?”  She asked.

              “I’m not sure Marcus Dye is guilty.”

              “Yes, but -” She stopped.

              I said nothing.

              Then, Chloe Bird spoke slowly:  “You’ve upset my mother.  She hates things like that.  Robberies murders and violence.”

              “Don’t we all,” I said.  “However, it must have been a great shock for her when a woman who worked for her ended up being murdered.”

              “Oh yes – oh yes, it was.”  She replied.  “We try and spare her these things.  The world is changing so fast and she is being left behind.”

              “I saw she had an I-pad.”

              “I programme that for her,” Chloe replied.  “It’s nearly all classical music.  Not my cup of tea.”

              “I like some,” I told her.  “I like listening to film music.  John Barry, Ennio Morricone and Hans Zimmer.  It’s the modern classical music they say.”

              The front door opened and a tall, spare elderly man came into the hall.  He stopped dead when he saw me.  He glanced at Chloe and his eyebrows rose in interrogation.”

              “This is my stepfather,” Chloe said.  “This is Mr John Handful.”

              Lord Osborne seemed unimpressed.  He just said, “Ah,” and turned to hang up his coat.

              “He came to ask about Faith Roberts,” Chloe said.

              Lord Osborne remained still for a few moments, before finishing adjusting his coat on the peg. 

“That’s a bit odd,” he said.  “Considering the woman died months ago and a man has been arrested and sentenced for her murder.  And as far as any further information is concerned I doubt whether we have any.”

              There was a finality in his tone.  He glanced at his watch.

              “Lunch ready yet, Chloe?”

              “Not yet.”

              His eyebrows rose again.  “Why?”

              “Agata has been rather busy.”

              “Chloe, how many times do I have to tell you?  When I am not about you have to take charge of the running of the house.  You know your mother is unwell and I expect you to step up to the plate.”

              I opened the front door and let myself out, glancing over my shoulder.

              There was a cold dislike in the gaze that Lord Osborne gave his stepdaughter and there was something very much like hate in the eyes that looked back at him.

11

              I left my third call until after lunch.  Lunch in the local pub on that day was Italian fayre and I chose
Bruschettine
(Three mini bruschetta; tomatoes and peppers, goat's cheese and onion jam, chicken liver paté) as a starter.
Tagliata Di Manzo
(Sliced chargrilled rump steak, served with rocket leaves and shaved Parmesan, rosemary potatoes and tarragon mayonnaise) for the main course.  And for dessert I had
Dolce di Cioccolato
(A warm chocolate pudding baked with almonds and Kahlua and served with vanilla ice cream).  Accompanying this I had a couple of glasses of
Peroni
and finished off with a couple of cups of black coffee.

              Absolutely stuffed, I walked slowly up the hill.  Presently on my right, I came to
Clarendon Cottage
, which was in fact two cottages knocked into one and remodelled to modern taste.  Here lived Lorraine Terret and her son the promising young author, Oliver Terret.

              I paused a moment at the gate and as I did so a car came twisting slowly down the hill and came to a halt outside the cottage. The driver was a female with a rather noble face and untidy billows of brunette hair.  She attempted to extract herself from the car, which wasn’t easy as she was a large woman and the car was small.

              I recognised the woman from a photograph on the back of many thrillers that I had read recently.  Julie Lawes was a celebrated detective-story writer and she greeted me with a beaming smile.

              “Oliver Terret?”  She asked me.

              “No, sorry,” I explained.  “My name is John Handful.”

              “The private detective?”

              “The very same,” I said embarrassed.

              “Do you live in Oxmarket Aspal?”

              “No.”

              “Are you on a case?”  She pressed. 

              “I am.”

              “Nothing to do with Lorraine Terret is it?”

              “Do you know her?”

              “Not to speak of.  I am visiting on a professional basis. A book of mine is being dramatised – by Oliver Terret. We’re supposed to sort of get together over it.”

              “I’ve read most of your books,” I told her.  “Which one is it?”

              “
Death Is For The Dying
.”

              That was my favourite and the pleasure must have shown in my face.

              “Don’t hold your breath,” she said.  “It’s been absolute hell trying to adapt it.”

              “Really? Why?”

              “I don’t need the money, so having your creations taken and your characters made to say things that they never would have said, and do things they never would have done is absolutely heart breaking.  Every time I question Oliver Terret, he just answers with his standard answer, ‘
It will be good theatre
.’  That’s all he ever thinks of. Everyone says he’s very clever, but if he’s that clever why doesn’t he write a play of his own instead of crucifying my character, DS Doug Grave.”

              Before she could complain any more a voice hailed from the door of the cottage. 

              “Hallo,” it was a male voice.  “Is that you, Julie?”

              Oliver Terret came down the path and through the gate.  He was bald headed and wore blue jeans and a dark polo shirt.

              “Julie, darling,” he exclaimed and embraced her warmly.

              He stood away, his hands on her shoulders.

              “My dear, I’ve had the most marvellous idea for the second act.”

              “Have you?” Julie said, without enthusiasm.  “By the way this is John Handful, the private detective.”

              “Splendid,” Oliver Terret, said without even acknowledging me.  “Have you got any luggage?”

              “Yes, it’s in the boot.”

              Oliver hauled out a couple of suitcases. “Jesus, what have you got in these things?”

              He staggered up the path, calling out over his shoulder, “Come in and have a drink.”

              “He means you,” Julie Lawes said and I followed her up the path.

              Oliver Terret reappeared at the front door.  “Come in, come in. We’ll park the car properly later.  My mother can’t wait to meet you.”

              The interior of
Clarendon Cottage
was charming.  I guessed that a very large sum of money had been spent on it, but the result was an expensive and charming simplicity. Each small piece of cottage oak was a genuine piece. 

              In a wheeled chair by the fireplace of the living-room Lorraine Terret smiled a welcome.  She was a vigorous looking woman of sixty-odd with iron-grey hair and a determined chin.

              “I’m delighted to meet you,” she said to Julie Lawes.  “I expect you get tired of people talking to you about your books, but they’ve been an enormous comfort to me for a long time and especially since I’ve been confined to a wheel-chair.”