Birthdays Can Be Murder (14 page)

In the ballroom, Mollern walked slowly over, noticing that the lads had begun to shuffle their feet. At the table he looked down at the scones. They were crammed with sultanas and steamed slightly. His mouth watered. He glanced once more at the constables, his face grave. ‘I do hope you haven’t been discussing the case with the cook?’

‘No, Sergeant,’ they chorused in unison.

‘Good. Don’t let’s forget that Justin Greer was poisoned. And in poisoning cases we nearly always look to the cook first,’ he lied, and had the pleasure of watching them go green around the gills. Their eyes flitted to the scones. The younger one swallowed hard. ‘Right then. You two get off home. Be back at eleven o’clock tonight, mind. Inspector Mollineaux wants a police presence in the house round the clock. Just in case somebody else gets poisoned.’

He watched the two scuttle away, a happy grin on his face. Immediately the door was shut, he quickly turned to the scones and ladled out some apricot jam. He sunk his teeth in with a sigh of bliss. They were the best scones he’d ever tasted.

Jenny was crossing the hall, the slammed door still ringing in her ears, when the main door flew open in a flurry of wind and rain. The ominous black clouds had at last let loose a downpour that had caught Daphne Williams unprepared as she’d been returning to the house with a few items she’d bought in the village. She put her bag down and slipped off her cardigan to give it a good shake, her usually elegant chignon looking bedraggled and wet.

It was this that made Jenny stop in mid-stride. Not because she was surprised that the housekeeper’s panache should suffer in the rain, just like everyone else’s, but rather the actual, physical sight of the wet, fair hair itself. With an icy shock, she knew she’d seen it before.

Hair of exactly that silvery gold shade. Hair that wet. A scant second later, as she remembered exactly where, the cold feeling intensified even more to form a solid block, somewhere in the middle of her spine.

At that moment Daphne noticed her, and gave her a rather weak smile. ‘Hello, Miss Starling. I wouldn’t go out if I were you.’ She indicated her wet skirt and blouse with a wry, self-conscious grimace.

Jenny smiled, but knew that her face must look stiff and unnatural. ‘Yes. I think I’ll have to postpone my daily walk.’

Daphne retrieved her bag and made as dignified a dripping exit as possible. Jenny watched her go, her eyes thoughtful and worried.

The last time she’d seen sodden hair of that colour, it had been on the body of Jimmy Speight as he’d been dragged from the pond. Jimmy Speight, whose family had moved here four years ago. Around the same time that Daphne had started work for the Greers.

Jimmy Speight was adopted, according to local gossip.

And Daphne had gone out of her way to make friends with the Speights, which had puzzled even Martha.

Back in the kitchen, Jenny poured some flour in a bowl and added a good dollop of butter to it. She was preparing rhubarb crumble, but her mind was on other things.

She didn’t see the cat slink through the door, hug the shadows by the wall and stealthily slide under her table.

She knew she’d have to tell Mollineaux her theory about Daphne, although she was not looking forward to it. For if Jimmy Speight was Daphne’s biological son, it would put her squarely in the middle of everything that was going on.

Now she could understand why Daphne had been acting so oddly lately. And sympathize. For the day Jenny had arrived here, Daphne had just learned that her son was dead. And, even worse, she had been denied the simple and natural need to grieve. For how could she grieve without telling the whole world why?

Jenny sighed deeply. Surely she could have had nothing to do with the murder of Justin, could she? Unless she had reason to suspect that Justin had killed her son.

Jenny sighed again, even more deeply, and turned her thoughts to what she’d learned from those nice young policemen. A needle – surely they meant a hypodermic?

Jenny began to vigorously rub the flour, sugar and butter together. How did a hypodermic needle fit into all this? Could Justin have been injected directly with neat paraquat? Surely not. Somebody would have seen. Besides, she couldn’t see Justin standing still while somebody jabbed him with a needle. Unless the crush at the party was so intense someone had been able to jog against him, inject him, then move away. But surely, surely,
somebody
would have noticed.

Unless he’d been injected upstairs in his bedroom, by Tom Banks.

Oh, right, Jenny thought exasperatedly, and Justin never thought to mention it to anybody, but had rejoined the party, laughed, drank and eaten for half an hour, then fallen dead after the toast.

Very likely.

But if Justin hadn’t been injected directly (and surely the coroner would have found the mark), then how did the needle fit in?

Just then she felt a swift injection in her ankle and she shot back, her heart leaping into overdrive. For a fraction of a second she thought that death had come to claim her, and that the murderer had just given her a fatal injection of paraquat.

Then a grey streak shot from under the table, bounded onto the dresser, knocked off a cream jug and shot out the window.

Jenny watched the cat go, and almost laughed. ‘Wonderful timing, cat,’ she murmured in a voice rich with admiration and profound relief. ‘Wonderful timing.’

Then her smile fled. She said again, very quietly and thoughtfully, ‘Wonderful timing,’ and returned to her mixing bowl.

Yes. It really must have been wonderful timing, she thought savagely. However it had been done.

M
OLLERN PUT DOWN
the telephone just as the inspector walked through the door. It appeared that Mollineaux had managed to catch a few hours’ sleep, but the evening sun was giving all the overtired policemen still at the crime scene ideas about home, wife and bed.

‘The lab, sir.’ Mollern indicated the telephone. ‘The syringe
did
contain paraquat as we thought.’

Mollineaux nodded, not at all surprised. ‘I’ve just heard from the hospital. Alicia Greer is being released tomorrow.’ He looked, however, paradoxically grim at the good news. It was explained a moment later when he added quietly, ‘She insists on coming home. Her father, too, won’t hear of anything else.’

Mollern sighed. ‘We have to get rid of the house guests then. Can’t keep them here with Miss Greer about. Especially Watkins.’

So far, Watkins had continuously denied that any argument had taken place on the night of the party. But with Alicia back home to say different, he might not feel so cocky.

Mollineaux slowly sank into a chair and ran a hand over his lips. He looked both thoughtful and tense. Finally he shook his head. ‘No. They stay. And so do we. I’ve arranged with Mark Greer for us to move into one of the bedrooms in the attic. Shared accommodation, I’m afraid, Sergeant. But there it is.’

Mollern shrugged philosophically. ‘Just like going back to my army days, sir.’ He didn’t add that such an unusual step meant that Mollineaux must be very concerned about the return of Alicia Greer indeed. He didn’t need to. He too could feel that things were about to break.

‘We’d better have another word with our cook,’ Mollineaux continued. ‘Get all the gen we can before we start putting the wind up our little gang.’

Mollern smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to putting it to that Arbie chap almost as much as I am in lighting a fire under our friend Watkins.’

Mollineaux smiled wearily. He hadn’t failed to notice his sergeant’s antipathy towards Arbie Goulder. In many ways it was quite understandable. There was something about Goulder that would rub any policeman up the wrong way. Perhaps it was his lack of fear that was so annoying. Perhaps it was his obvious intelligence. Brains (not brawn) were a policeman’s chief enemy after all. A clever criminal, sad though it was to contemplate, could very often get away with murder.

‘Right. Kitchen,’ he said, more to bolster his own flagging energy than to spur on Mollern. Although the junior man had had as little sleep as anyone else, there was something of the tireless dynamo about his squat, powerful frame that Mollineaux had often had to rely on in the past.

‘Now that our theory about the needle and what it must mean has checked out,’ Mollern said, leading the way, ‘what do we do if our suspect list changes?’

Mollineaux closed his eyes briefly. ‘Don’t even think it, Sergeant,’ he chided wearily. ‘Don’t even think it.’

Jenny looked up as the two policemen descended the few steps into the kitchen and glanced across at Martha. The cook resolutely turned her back and put every ounce of effort into upgrading her ears. Mollineaux coughed. Martha continued to deal with the ingredients of a rice pudding. Mollineaux coughed again, and not even Martha could ignore it. Reluctantly, she put her ears on stand-down, and turned inquiringly. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Vaughan. We’d like to have a few moments alone with Miss Starling here.’

Martha sniffed, but shot a look of triumph at Jenny as she left.

‘Are you about to make her day?’ Jenny asked, amused, and when Mollineaux raised a questioning eyebrow, added drolly, ‘Are you about to arrest me?’

‘Nothing so dramatic,’ Mollineaux assured her. ‘We just need your help. It’s about the afternoon of the party.’ Jenny nodded, her alert eyes moving from sergeant to inspector and back again. ‘The champagne arrived when exactly?’ he asked.

‘About ten, I think. A delivery man brought it in.’

Mollern questioned her closely about his appearance and made notes. ‘And you directed him to the pantry?’ he continued smoothly.

‘No. The housekeeper did.’

‘Mrs Williams?’ Mollineaux said sharply. ‘Why did she do that?’

‘Alicia told her to, apparently,’ Jenny said, wondering why the police were so concerned about the arrival of the champagne all of a sudden. At their continued silence, she felt obliged to explain further. ‘Apparently Alicia was afraid that if the wines were put in the cellar, along with the rest of her father’s vintages, there might be a mistake made, and some of her father’s other, far more expensive wines might be retrieved by mistake. Apparently Mr Greer buys wine more as an investment than to actually drink,’ she added, unable to keep the disapproval out of her voice. In her opinion, wine was made for drinking, even if she very rarely imbibed herself.

‘I see,’ Mollineaux said. He didn’t look happy, Jenny thought – not happy at all. ‘And after the wine was stored in the pantry,’ the policeman continued, so nonchalantly that Jenny instantly knew they’d come to the crux of the matter, ‘who else had occasion to go into the pantry?’

So that’s it, Jenny thought, the answer coming to her in a flash. The syringe the young policeman had talked about must have contained paraquat. Which meant that the police believed it had been used to inject the champagne with poison through the cork. What else? How very clever. How very,
very
clever, she mused.

‘Miss Starling?’ Mollineaux prompted sharply, not at all liking the look of comprehension that had flickered briefly across her face.

‘Eh? Oh, the pantry. Yes. I can see that’s very important,’ she murmured, trying to rein in her racing thoughts. ‘Well, the first one to go in there was Justin Greer, to look at his birthday cake.’

But that obviously didn’t count, Jenny realized, then brought herself up to an abrupt halt. Or did it? Justin had certainly been in the pantry long enough to take out a paraquat-filled hypodermic and shove it into a champagne cork. Had he, in fact, meant to murder someone else and somehow it had all gone terribly wrong? Or had the intended victim perhaps found out and turned the tables (or rather the champagne bottles) on him?

‘Miss Starling,’ Mollineaux said again, beginning to feel hot under the collar. If he didn’t know better he could swear the cook was already ahead of him. But that was impossible.

‘What? Oh, sorry. Who else. Hmm, let’s see. Mr Greer, Mark Greer that is, came down with Mr Goulder. Alicia had asked Mr Goulder to bring some of the wine to the ballroom.’

Mollern, who had perked up considerably on hearing Arbie’s name, scribbled happily. ‘And Mr Goulder was alone in the pantry?’ Mollineaux persisted, which made Jenny abruptly frown. She was mad at herself because, of course, she hadn’t been paying particular attention. Which meant that she just didn’t know.

‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Mr Greer could have handed out a crate to him. Or he could have gone in after it himself. I just don’t know.’ She could see the disappointment on their faces and felt guilty. ‘Well, it’s hardly my fault,’ she snapped. ‘I was rushed off my feet preparing a six-course meal and party nibbles. How was I to know somebody would be injecting paraquat into the champagne?’ she challenged them grimly. ‘If I had, I can assure you, I’d have been taking more notice.’

Mollineaux stared at her, his jaw very nearly falling to his knees. ‘Injecting paraquat into the champagne?’ he repeated. His face darkened. ‘And how, pray tell, did you know that, Miss Starling?’

Jenny felt like giving herself a hearty kick on the shins. If she hadn’t been wearing such heavy sensible shoes, she might have done just that. ‘Er, well, I just happened to, er, overhear something about a hypodermic found somewhere and, naturally, when you came here asking about who had access to the pantry with the champagne in it, I just put two and two together. Tell me, Inspector, where was the needle found exactly?’

‘In one of the bins in the ballroom. The one under the champagne table to be exact,’ he said grimly. ‘Since you seem to know so much already, you may as well know it all.’

Jenny flushed guiltily. ‘Yes, well. Now, who else went in to the pantry?’ She quickly turned back to the original questioning, hoping she hadn’t got either of the two young constables who’d inadvertently spilled the beans into trouble. ‘Mr Harding carried out a crate.’

‘Keith Harding?’ Mollineaux said, thankfully turning his attention elsewhere. ‘When was this?’

‘The same time as Mr Greer and Arbie.’

Mollern glanced across at his superior and Jenny could tell they were both thinking the same thing. Why might Keith Harding poison the champagne? The answer, of course, was obvious to all three. To kill Justin who so heartily disapproved of him and was intent on making trouble. And who had been on hand to prevent Alicia drinking too much of the champagne herself? Again, Keith Harding.

‘Even so,’ Jenny said, thinking her thoughts out loud, ‘that would have been very risky. He does love her, after all.’

Mollern nodded, not seeming to notice that the cook was echoing his own thoughts almost to the letter. ‘I think he’s genuinely in love with the girl too,’ he said judiciously. ‘So would he take such a terrible risk with her life?’

‘And again, I’m not sure if Keith actually went into the pantry alone, or if—’ Suddenly, she stopped. Both Mollineaux and Mollern glanced at her quickly. ‘I suppose,’ she said thoughtfully after a moment or two, ‘that the champagne must have been injected while it was still in there.’ She nodded to the back pantry. ‘It couldn’t possibly have been done in the ballroom?’

Both policemen shook their heads at once. ‘Too crowded. With so many people around, someone would have been bound to notice if a hypodermic was whipped out and stuck into a bottle.’

Jenny sighed. ‘Yes. I suppose so. But, in that case, it doesn’t make sense,’ she said, her voice so chagrined and disappointed and frustrated, that both policemen had to fight back a smile. Mollineaux was not about to ask her to explain herself, however. He was well aware that a lot of things about this case didn’t make sense. And number one on that list of things that didn’t make sense was how the killer could possibly have arranged for the poisoned bottle to be served only to Justin and Alicia Greer and nobody else.

‘The wine waiters are all agreed that they began filling the guests’ glasses for the toast just before the cake was brought in.’ He went over it again out loud, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He was confident that if he did, Jenny Starling would soon pounce on it. ‘They took the champagne from the table, where the head wine waiter had uncorked it, a chap of unblemished record who didn’t know the Greers from Adam. Under all those watchful eyes, they’d circulated with the glasses until every guest had one, and then Alicia Greer gave the signal for the birthday cake. The lights went out, everybody oohed and ahhed over the cake, then the lights came on again. Alicia went to her brother and signalled for their glasses to be filled. Another waiter – no, a waitress this time – was handed two glasses from the head wine waiter, who swears he poured the glasses from a bottle he picked at random, and again with over a hundred eyes watching the waitress took the glasses to the brother and sister. Justin and Alicia drink and … hey presto.’

‘What about when the lights went out?’ Jenny said.

‘No good.’ Mollineaux shook his head. ‘I’ve checked with everyone at the party. They all said it went dark – practically pitch-black. Nobody could have seen to pour poison into a champagne glass. Besides which, we already have a hypodermic filled with paraquat. No. It just doesn’t make sense. Somebody pre-injected the champagne – or why the needle? – and somehow,
somehow
, arranged that only Justin and Alicia drank from it.’

‘Which brings us back to the waitress,’ Mollern said, and looked at Miss Starling thoughtfully.

Jenny looked away. ‘Yes,’ she agreed miserably.

‘Yes,’ Mollineaux echoed her prim word sardonically. ‘Did you, by any wild chance, happen to know who that waitress is, Miss Starling?’ Mollineaux asked, so silkily she knew that the game was up.

‘Hmm? Oh, yes, I believe she was, no, still is – for the moment anyway – Mr Harding’s wife. Estranged wife, I suppose I should say. I take it that you’ve questioned her?’ she added casually.

‘Oh yes,’ Mollineaux said grimly. ‘We’ve had one of our top interrogators questioning her for hours now.’

Jenny felt a wave of sympathy for Margie Harding wash over her, and winced. ‘And you’ve run into the same problems as before,’ she mused. ‘Margie Harding, to my knowledge, never set foot in the pantry. So she couldn’t possibly have injected the paraquat beforehand.’

‘No,’ Mollineaux said heavily. ‘She also had nothing to do with the opening of the champagne, or the distribution of it. The head waiter, or one of his more trusted minions, always opened the bottles. They then poured and gave trays of the stuff to the waiters and waitresses to circulate with. Including our Mrs Harding.’

‘Still,’ Mollern said, ‘she did hand over the fatal glasses to Justin and his sister.’

‘But she wasn’t stood at the champagne table before the toast,’ Jenny pointed out quickly, and both men nodded gloomily. ‘Also, it was the head waiter who actually poured out the glasses. From a random bottle. And somebody would have seen her if she’d tried to poison just one glass, surely?’

Jenny simply didn’t want it to be Margie Harding. Of all the suspects, she was the only one Jenny actively
wanted
to be innocent. Any of the others – Arbie, Trevor Watkins, Babs, even Keith – any of those she could cope with as a murderer.

‘Pity, though,’ Mollern said. ‘She had the motive, and so very nearly the opportunity. And I don’t think much of her reasons for being at the party. I don’t believe a woman would go to so much trouble just to be near her husband.’

‘Then you don’t know much about women, Sergeant,’ Jenny said crisply, and rose to her feet. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked pleasantly. Both men quickly agreed, and the cook took out a large, rounded fruitcake. ‘Baked this morning,’ she said. ‘When Martha wasn’t looking,’ she added, eyes twinkling. For a while, silence reigned as tea was sipped and cake appreciatively munched.