Authors: Roberta Latow
They watched Wolfgang drag the chiffon scarf over the surface of the pond. Marguerite turned over the contents of the basket then slipped her arm through Harry’s, announcing, ‘Come on, you can row the boat. I
really
like that scarf.’
Half an hour later the limp wet scarf was safely in her basket and they were walking arm in arm into Miss Marble’s tea room. There were half a dozen people already sitting at the small cream-clothed tables with garden flowers in small glass vases at their centre.
They sat down at a table in the window after Marguerite had introduced Harry to Miss Marble as someone staying for a few days at the pub. Harry, who had a passion for marvellous sweets, puddings and cakes, was surprised by what was on offer. There were pedestal cake plates proffering luscious-looking triple-layered cakes covered in chocolate, each layer spread thick with apricot jam, lemon tarts, glazed fruit tarts, a coffee cream cake, strawberry cream cake … The choice seemed to go on forever.
‘I’m spoiled for choice,’ he told Miss Marble.
The plain-looking grey-haired lady smiled with delight as she told him, ‘Yes, they come from far and wide for tea and cake here. The Americans, in particular, want to taste it all so we do a special taster – small portions of various cakes. How would you like to try that? One doesn’t like to admit it, but those Americans are so much more adventurous than we English in their eating habits. And for you, Marguerite, the drop scones, I presume? Our Marguerite likes those.’
Marguerite seemed to be much admired in the village. Harry found it interesting the way everyone in the tea room gave a pleasant nod and a smile but no one intruded on their privacy. Once seated, and without any discernible reason, an awkward silence descended upon Marguerite and Harry. She found it somewhat irritating, this awkward small talk that invariably results between two people who have just met.
Harry was aware of her change of expression. ‘That was fun, feeding the ducks and retrieving your scarf. I’ve always had a real fondness for ducks ever since I was a child.’
Marguerite felt the warmth of his smile and knew he was telling her she had given him a good time, childlike, which was something he rarely had any more. ‘I think it’s strange you should have come away on a break wearing your tie. Undo it and open your shirt collar, kick off your shoes so to speak, or I might think you’ve come here for some other reason.’
It was said in jest and with a smile. She was quite surprised when he did nothing of the sort. ‘That’s quite astute. Are you always so observant?’ he asked.
Sarah Marble brought the tray of tea and a cake stand to the table. It was a little too much for her to handle. Marguerite was instantly on her feet and helping to serve. But the moment Miss Marble left them she sat down and looked directly into Harry’s eyes, ‘Yes, that’s the sort of mind I have,’ she admitted, while pouring coffee into his cup from a silver pot.
She sat back in her chair, still looking at him, and said, ‘You’re here for more than the trout fishing, and that bothers me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I dislike disruption – handsome strangers with inquisitive minds who drop into my world and shuffle it around. I’m getting the distinct feeling that this is what’s happening here.’
‘I hope to make it as painless as possible for everyone,’ he said.
Marguerite was stunned by that answer. She felt fear coil in the pit of her stomach. ‘Would you mind expanding on that?’
‘I’m actually Detective Chief Inspector Harry Graves-Jones, here with two colleagues from New Scotland Yard, leading an investigation into the disappearance of Lady Olivia Cinders.’
‘You might have said,’ she told him testily, unable to hide her disapproval.
‘But I
am
saying,’ he replied, and forked a piece of cake into his mouth.
Marguerite buttered her scone and placed a dollop of peach preserve on it. It was delicious, she was sure, but it tasted like ashes in her mouth. The two of them remained silent while they ate, occasionally looking out of the window.
‘Are you never going to talk to me again?’ Harry asked, somewhat teasingly.
‘Why has that tragic case suddenly arrived on our doorstep?’ Marguerite answered his question with one of her own.
‘The abandoned car that was found here was easy to trace. It belonged to a Mrs Caroline Wasborough. After a number of days a clever detective made the link between the abandoned car and Lady Olivia. Her fingerprints were all over it. Either with or without another person she drove the car here, presumably to ask for help to get away. Sefton Under Edge is our only break so far in the case. We know for sure that she was here and we mean to pick up her trail. You do know Lady Olivia Cinders, don’t you?’
‘Don’t bother unpacking, Detective Chief Inspector. If Olivia had been here looking for help, she would have come to me. And she didn’t.’
‘Call me Harry – I think we like each other enough to call each other by our first names. Olivia went to someone for help in this village, Marguerite, and that someone spirited her away from here.’
‘So you say. I tell you, it’s not possible. The night in question a group of us were together partying at Sefton Park, her closest and dearest, and in the case of the Buchanans her oldest friends. We knew nothing of the abandoned car until the following day when the postman discovered it, blocking the road to the Park. If she did drive it here why did she abandon it in that odd manner across the road? She must have changed her mind, deciding not to involve us. She might even have left it here as a decoy while she made her getaway.’
‘Marguerite, someone in this village has duped you. They have done the deed and until now never revealed what they did to another living soul. Silence was and is Olivia’s only hope. They know that, and anyone who wants to aid and abet her knows it. So do you. Think about it, Marguerite, think about it hard. What sort of life can Olivia hope for, on the run for the rest of her life? We’re after her and mean to get her but the prince’s family are mounting a private search for her and you know what they’ll put her through if they find her before I do. Help me to learn what she’s like so that I can find her and bring her to justice. It’s her only hope.’
‘You call that hope? That’s a hope made in hell. And Olivia wasn’t made for hell. She couldn’t stand going to prison. Probably why she fled in the first place. And I’ll tell you something else: tread carefully with us here in this village. You may turn over stones and reveal more than any of us wants to become public knowledge.’
‘Why are you so angry with me? Surely not because I’m hunting down your friend for taking a life. I heard you once declare to a TV audience that there was no greater crime than taking a human life. It makes redemption impossible. Or have you changed your mind about that now that it’s your friend Lady Olivia who’s in the dock? You know, my dear, you’re a good thinker and a joy to listen to because you make people contemplate serious issues, but you’re not always honest and certainly not always right. Seventy-five per cent twaddle, ten per cent charm, and the rest fine scholarship and intellect. That’s a back-handed compliment, I know, but it’s meant to tell you I respect who and what you are and are not. I promise to tread carefully on people’s toes but, by god, like it or not, you
will
answer my queries. Now have a taste of this cake, it’s delicious.’
Marguerite rose from her chair, saying, ‘You’re an insulting bastard.’
‘No, an honest officer of the law,’ he told her as he rose to kiss her hand. Then, very softly, whispered: ‘Don’t play games with me. Be my friend, not my enemy, and have dinner with me in the pub this evening?’
Without answering him, she walked away.
Marguerite was angry. The New Scotland Yard man was spot on in his assessment of her. She knew it, many of her critics had said the same things about her and had done so since she first came on the scene fifteen years before. Women listened as much to her now as they had ever done. But she was flawed and so were many of her philosophies. She had allowed her ambition and intelligence to trample on her ability to
love
a man for no other reason than
love
(the weak woman’s anaesthetic to self-development). A deep genuine love that made no demands except to be in it had been for her too demeaning, or at least she’d thought so until she met Olivia, who was love incarnate. Marguerite simply could not bear to give herself up totally and with a generous heart to a man; she had never found one good enough to receive such a gift. Oh, yes, for great sex, orgasmic ecstasy. To soar with a man for a few seconds. She did that well and often. But it was short-lived ecstasy and in constant need of feeding.
Who was this Harry Graves-Jones? He was someone special with a keen intelligence, a man who didn’t suffer fools easily. Over no more than a cup of coffee he’d had the measure of her, and if he was that quick with her he was bound to be no less so with all concerned with Olivia. It was going to be tough trying to protect their privacy, their lifestyle, to keep their secrets and most especially Olivia’s. And where the hell was she anyway? Beautiful, wonderful Olivia, gone from their lives forever? This Harry Graves-Jones, had he met her, would be no different than any of them – in love with her. That made Marguerite smile, Harry was just the sort of man Olivia could and would seduce.
He already seemed enthralled by her and had not even laid eyes on her yet. How long, she wondered, before he would forget his pursuit of justice? Marguerite hurried home to call James and warn him who was in their midst.
Harry remained in Miss Marble’s tea shop long after Marguerite had walked out on him. He was aware that he had been quite hard on her but it had been necessary. He had no intention of deceiving her or anyone else in the village about his reason for being here. Marguerite was a woman of too much charm, too clever in the art of manipulation, and he wanted her to realise she could not fool him. Now she did.
Miss Marble interrupted his contemplation. ‘Another cup of coffee, Mr Graves-Jones?’
Harry looked around the tea room. He was the only customer left in it. The young waitress was busy resetting tables. He rose from his chair and asked, ‘If you will join me, Miss Marble.’
She was charmed by his good looks, recognised him as a gentleman, and he obviously loved her cakes which was flattering. ‘I’m not intruding?’ she asked.
‘Not in the least,’ was his reply.
After ordering Annie to bring another pot of coffee for Harry and tea for herself, she sat down. ‘The Americans always ask if I would like to join them but you’re my first Englishman,’ she said somewhat shyly.
‘Miss Marble, you are a master pastry chef,’ he complimented her. She beamed. ‘I expect to be here in Sefton Under Edge for several days so you and I will be seeing each other every day.’
Delight was clear in her face. ‘Are you here for fishing? The stream is well known for its blue trout. The gillie has a smoke house downstream and you’ve never tasted anything like it when he’s smoked the catch – the flesh looks like smoked salmon and tastes wonderful,’ she said.
‘Well, maybe I can get some of that in but the real reason I’m here is because I am a Detective Chief Inspector from New Scotland Yard, in charge of the Lady Olivia Cinders case.’
‘Oh, I do hope our Olivia is all right! I’m certain there must be a mistake.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘Have done all her life. The loveliest girl in England. And such a lady. She’s one of those rare people one occasionally comes across for whom one would lay down one’s life without a qualm. She and the Buchanan girls grew up together. They’re like family. And the lovely men who used to come here with her! You just never met anyone so full of life and laughter – and bright as a penny. Of course, she went to Oxford. I make all her birthday cakes and Sir James delivers them to the most exotic places. We pack them in his plane and off he goes.’
‘Miss Marble, does Sir James fly his own plane?’
‘Several, and he has his own private air strip. Maybe he’ll take you up. He’s very generous about that. Loves to fly. Marguerite keeps a plane here too, and the Buchanan girls, September and Angelica. They live a very sophisticated life up at the Park with marvellous grown-up toys: planes and vintage cars and so on. They have a fantastic life here with their friends and are always doing things for the village. A few years ago I had pneumonia. Do you know, Olivia and James flew the bread and pastry up from London, fresh each day, and she and September ran the tea room.’
Miss Marble leaned forward and whispered across the table, ‘I don’t know how they did it but I made more money when those girls were running the shop than I’ve ever done before my illness or since.’
‘Does Olivia have her own plane?’
‘Oh, no, she uses the Buchanans’.’
‘Does she have a house here?’
‘No, she lives at Sefton Park. You know, Detective Chief Inspector, you must clear Olivia’s name, you really must.’
‘Well, I have to find her first, Miss Marble.’
‘Is that why you’ve come? Oh, you won’t find her here.’
‘Yes, that’s why I’m here. And why are you so sure Olivia isn’t hiding out in someone’s house locally?’
Miss Marble said quite seriously, ‘Because we have looked everywhere for her in the hope of finding and helping her. We’ve been talking endlessly to one another about why she hasn’t come. We worry about her, living in fear and with no friends. She must know we’d help her but Olivia quite obviously doesn’t want
to involve us in her problem. I have no doubt that as soon as she’s over the shock of what’s happened, she’ll go to you of her own accord.’
Harry found his chat with Miss Marble strangely unreal. Did no one understand that the woman he was hunting was a murderer? Did they not understand that there was overwhelming evidence that this young woman they had adored, and still did, had a dark side to her that allowed her to take a man’s life? Did they not think of the prince, the law of the land, anything except how much they loved and admired Olivia?
In the pub Harry introduced himself to Jethroe Wiley and then went up to his room. He was an hour on the telephone checking out the latest sightings from Interpol. ‘Anything to report before we go down to lunch?’ he asked the team.
‘Give us a chance, sir. We’ve been setting ourselves up all morning. And the e-mail and faxes are non-stop.’
‘Quite so. Forget the phones for a few minutes. Let’s go over what we’ve learned since our arrival. Fact, Olivia drove that car here. Fact, she had good reason. This was her village, the place she felt at home. Fact, her best friends live here. Fact, she lived at Sefton Park from time to time. Very important fact, she knows how to fly a plane. Fact, there’s a private airstrip a fifteen-minute walk from here where several planes are kept. Fact, Marguerite Chen lives here and is a friend of Lady Olivia’s. Fact, Miss Marble from the tea shop speaks of Olivia as a saint.
‘I think we’re in the right place to find out all we can about the real Lady Olivia but the wrong place to catch her. Instinct tells me she’s long since fled abroad and the only way we’ll find her is to gather information about what happened on the night the car was abandoned. To come to know and understand Lady Olivia Cinders so well we can anticipate her every move and follow every lead we uncover. Fact, time is no longer on our side and of course she might possibly be dead. Jenny, what have you got, if anything?’
‘No facts, sir, but I’m suspicious of the publican and the barmaid, Hannah Brite. I’d like to be the one to interview them, sir.’
‘Always follow up your suspicions, Sullivan. What about you, Sixsmith?’
‘The publican is a retired policeman. He’s been a great help to me, sir, but there
is
something strange about him. The way he speaks to the barmaid. Something in his manner. This pub is his world and so’s the village, apparently. He’s dropped more than one hint that he doesn’t want us upsetting things. The way he looks at Jenny, I think he must be a real womaniser,’ reported Sixsmith.
‘And not a very nice one,’ she added.
‘And other than that?’ asked Harry.
‘Nothing. He’s a genuine character and according to Hannah is the heartbeat of the village. Everyone likes Jethroe Wiley whose generosity is well known.’
‘I’ll take Jethroe. This is going to have to be a house-to-house investigation. Remember, we want to know the truth about Lady Olivia, flaws and all, so we can build up a picture of this woman. Knowing her as well as she does herself is the way we’ll pick up her trail.’
In the pub they took their table. The place was already filled with people – drinking, laughing, dining. It was a marked contrast to the morning when the clientele was more sparse and only called in briefly. When Hannah Brite brought them their main course of trout almandine on a bed of buttered spinach and a mountain of French fried potatoes, a bowl of fresh garden vegetables au gratin cooked to perfection, Harry could see how special the place was and that Jethroe drew his custom from the surrounding villages as well as his own.
It was evident from the look on people’s faces, the whispers and glances directed at Harry and his team, that word of who they were and why they were here was now common knowledge. Their meal finished, the three of them separated. Harry headed for Sefton Park to interview the Buchanans.
Passing through the gates of the park and up the winding drive, the ruins of the once great Tudor house and what was left and conserved of Sefton Park, cast a spell over Harry that compelled him to pull up the car and cut the motor. He stepped out of it
and felt a glorious soft warm breeze carrying the scent of acres of the brightest green grass, and from somewhere close by the scent of roses and wild flowers. He walked in the direction of the ruins and was rewarded by the sight of a folly-sized version of Sefton Park. This was privilege on a grand scale; this was Olivia, her lifestyle. He could imagine her riding across the parkland, full of spirit and the joy of life. He could feel her presence all around him. She wasn’t dead. A girl who was so much a part of this world would have taken her chance, not fallen on her sword as Giles Wasborough had suggested.
Relief washed over Harry. Lady Olivia Cinders was still alive, and had been very clever in her getaway. So far he had felt it had been an accidental killing, a sex game gone wrong. Now he was not so sure. Lady Olivia’s getaway had been carefully planned, possibly only after the deed had been done but planned nevertheless.
Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a beautiful horse ridden at full gallop through one of the massive stone Tudor arches and down the grassy hillock towards him: a palomino with a long cream-coloured mane streaming into the wind, tail swishing with wild enthusiasm from side to side. The rider was young, no more than in her early-twenties. She had long chestnut-coloured hair that shone in the sun and when she pulled up in front of Harry, he saw large blue eyes sparkling with life. She wore riding clothes but no hat and as she slung one leg over her horse and leaped to the ground he liked what he saw of her figure: slender and small-breasted. She was stunning and enormously sensuous. Her body language was erotic, face young and innocent with a voluptuous mouth and bee-stung upper lip.
She had about her the aura of one who is free in love, a winner. Just the sort of young girl he liked to make love to, enjoyed having on his arm as well as in his bed. It was a strange thing for him to do but she was irresistible. Harry placed his hands on his hips and leaned back on his heels, laughing aloud. She smiled because he was enjoying her so much. There was something really exciting about him; she was overtaken by an overwhelming desire to have sex with him. His good looks were only a part of it. There was a strength and a sweetness to his
manner, a sexual charisma too strong to hide from. September wanted him to take her, hit the heights of sexual bliss and beyond. Without a word being uttered between them, she had fallen in love. She had never felt for another man what she felt for this stranger. Her first words to him were, ‘Are you married?’
Her voice was husky and sensuous and there was a teasing note in it. Or so he thought. He learned different after he had answered, ‘No.’
September smiled and Harry thought his heart would melt. ‘That’s great,’ she told him.
She handed him the reins to her horse and swung herself up into the saddle, extending her hand, ‘I never get involved with a man who’s already spoken for. Too much pain.’
Harry handed her the reins then took her hand and swung himself up on the horse behind her. He slid his arms around her waist and they started at a slow trot over the parkland. September leaned against his chest and was thrilled by the warmth of his body. Harry ran his fingers through her hair then brushed it off the nape of her neck and kissed it. He licked her ear lobes and September felt herself giving in to him. He unbuttoned her blouse and she wriggled out of it. Harry caressed her breasts, her shoulders, down her naked arms and around her midriff. She could feel him hard against her.
‘This is madness but wonderful madness, the kind that dreams and fantasies are made of,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘That love is made of. Love for no other reason than being one with another human being,’ she told him.
She pulled the horse up and, turning in the saddle to look over her shoulder, continued, ‘You’re not a criminal of any sort, are you?’
He laughed and told her, ‘Certainly not. I take it that makes two sorts of men you don’t have sex with?’
September turned round to face forward. He felt her stiffening in his arms. He sensed he had upset her with his teasing and felt simply dreadful. He could hardly understand this desire to have outrageous sex with her but also to love and protect her from hurt. And he didn’t even know her name. He simply could not leave it at that, he had to tell her and he did.