Money Never Sleeps (4 page)

Jed sat on the chair opposite the bed. ‘Did you have any lunch?’

Fancy nodded. ‘Orange custard.’

‘Tea at tea time?’

‘Cup of tea.’

‘Anything else?’

Fancy tried to remember. ‘I made a drink here, I think. A coffee or something. Yes, I made a cup of coffee.’

‘Where’s the cup?’

‘Over there. I don’t know.’

Jed filled a glass with water from the tap. ‘Drink this. Now put on a fleece and we’ll go for a walk. Have you got a fleece? It’s late and it’s turned cold.’

‘Have I missed everything?’

‘Yes, the speaker was good. He writes for radio. He knew what he was talking about for once. No going to sleep in that one.’

Jed made her walk down the three flights of stairs. It was hairy and scary, the dizziness kept returning in waves. Fancy kept her eyes on the broad back ahead of her. He seemed to change
direction
as the stairs twisted downwards. They were Hogwart stairs. Her free hand gripped the banisters.

Someone told her at lunch that one of the speakers, many years ago, broke her ankle on the dance floor in the small conference hall. Fancy did not want to add her name to the list of casualties. It was late at night and someone was bound to think she had spent all evening in the bar.

The night air was cool and starlit. Some stalwarts were still on the lawns talking, wrapped in ponchos and cashmere stoles. The smokers’ gazebo was full of hazy laughter, smoke eddying on the disturbed air. Jed steered her away.

‘We’ll walk round the lake,’ he said. ‘It’ll be quieter there. And you can tell me what all this nonsense is about.’

‘It’s not nonsense,’ said Fancy, her voice still slurred.

‘I’ll decide where I hear your story.’

Jed was in his chief super mode. He must have been fearsome to work for. His eyebrows, which were darker than his silvery streaked hair, had a way of drawing together when he was puzzled or angry. They changed his face.

He was taking her to the lake. Fancy did not want to go to the lake. People drowned in lakes. Her victims often drowned in lakes. Supposing Jed was the person trying to kill her? He could push her in and no one would find her till the morning.

She had quite forgotten that she could swim. She could swim rather well. Holidays in Polzeath, Cornwall, surfing all day, had made her a strong swimmer. Padstow Bay with miles of sand to run along was another fond memory.

‘We are going to the old lake,’ he went on. ‘It’s in the original sunken garden. It’s very beautiful, with weeping willows and water lilies and swans. There a bench by the lake, dedicated to Jill Dick, the Treasurer of the writers’ conference for many years. We’ll sit there and perhaps her bright mind will help us sort this out. She always loved a puzzle.’

He didn’t sound as if he was planning to push her in the lake.

‘Is there a new lake, then?’ Her mind was beginning to emerge from the fog.

‘Yes, didn’t you see it when you drove in? The new lake is square, with a path all round it, a verge and a fence. It also has planted water lilies but as yet, no character. The swans won’t go near it. Careful, this bit of lawn is steep.’

The path down to the lake was through trees and shrubbery and clumps of flowers. She could smell the heavy scent of an evening primrose. It was a lover’s path, the perfect setting for a romantic scene. But she was not with a lover. She was with an interrogator.

The moon came out from behind clouds, on the shy side, and the lake was lit with a silvery gleam. The trees were whispering secrets. The water lilies were closed but their perfume still lingered. It was magical. Writers could write reams here. Poets would be inspired; non-fiction would be lost, wondering how to use the magic in an article.

‘Let’s sit here,’ said Jed, leading her to a polished wood bench. ‘Hi, Jill.’

‘Did you know her?’

‘Everyone knew her. She was very efficient and she loved cats. If you liked cats, she was your friend for life.’

‘What did she write?’

‘Non-fiction, like me. She was a newspaper journalist.’

Fancy’s mind was clearing. She knew she had been drugged. Not seriously enough to put her out altogether or land her in intensive care, though. Some sleeping pill or tranquillizer. Seroquel XL was an anti-psychotic drug they gave to depressives.

‘They probably injected a carton of milk,’ said Jed. ‘They could hardly add something to coffee granules or a tea bag, but it would be simple enough to inject those little cartons with a syringe. You had better throw them all away. Better still, I’ll get them all tested and see if the experts come up with anything.’

‘You think I was drugged?’

‘Classic symptoms. But not enough to kill you.’

‘How reassuring,’ she said bluntly. ‘Just another warning.’

‘Tell me about these warnings,’ said Jed. ‘Take your time, Fancy. Start at the beginning.’

‘I don’t know when the beginning was,’ said Fancy, trying to think. ‘I might not have noticed the first signs. Lots of things happen which mean nothing, till suddenly they start to mean something.’

‘A very lucid explanation, especially from a writer.’ Fancy ignored the sarcasm. She could remember the time of each happening clearly. But there was no logic to remembering the exact time, to the second, almost. Unless one day some
explanation
leaped out at her.

‘I think the first one I remember happening was on the London Underground, Circle line, at 17.16 p.m.’ She went on to describe what had happened or not quite happened. She told him about the rucksack incident on the bus. And the lump of concrete through her bedroom window the night before she left for Derbyshire.

‘They got the saint and the lambs,’ she added, though he didn’t understand.

‘Then last night the biscuit tin and this evening, some sort of sleeping pill or tranquilizer,’ said Jed.

‘I think they’re warnings that someone is going to kill me if I do something or don’t do something.’ Fancy tried not to sound shaken. ‘Why should anyone want to kill me?’

‘You tell me. A rival author? Someone who thought you had stolen their plot? Plagiarism? A rejected lover? A revengeful husband?’

‘None of those. No husband, no lover, no rivals. A disgruntled ex-agent, worried publishers, but that’s nothing new in these cashless days. I can’t think of a motive, even with my
imagination
.’

‘I’m glad you’ve told me. I was beginning to think you were a bit weird, one of those eccentric writers who imagine disasters round every corner. Let’s go back now and I’ll collect the milk cartons for testing. I’ve a pal in Derby who owes me a favour. He won’t mind.’

Jed helped Fancy to her feet. She was stiff and cold, needed warm arms. If they were lovers, thought Fancy, this could have
been such a romantic moment. She had almost forgotten what romantic moments were like. It had been so long ago.

‘Your hair’s nice like that, all loose, instead of that frigid topknot,’ he said, his voice changing. There was an unexpected sweetness.

Her hand flew up. She had been unaware that her hair had come loose and was down to her shoulders, tumbled and untidy. His good hand went to touch a dark strand and she leaped back, pushing him away.

‘Don’t you dare shove me in the lake,’ she cried out. ‘I can swim. I won’t drown. I can swim very well.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Fancy, calm down. I wasn’t going to push you into the lake. Let’s get you back to your room before you wake the entire neighbourhood with your shouting. I don’t want to get a reputation.’

‘S-sorry.’ Fancy was tired now, a genuine tiredness, nothing induced. ‘Yes, back to Lakeside.’

Jed took her arm and guided her round the darkened path towards the other side of the lake and the quickest way back to Lakeside. It was tranquil but some of the magic had gone. The swans had retired to rest, probably on the little island in the middle of the lake. They would get peace there. Maybe there was a nest.

Jed stopped suddenly. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. He left Fancy on the path and went carefully down the slope, holding on to an overhanging branch of the weeping willow. The reeds stirred.

Fancy watched his sudden alertness; suddenly she was wide awake. The clouds drifted away from the face of the moon again and the lake took on its magical silver sheen. But it was not so magical now. On the surface of the water was something white, slowly turning as it floated. It was a pale feminine arm and around it swirled yards of sodden chiffon.

The chiffon was like a goodbye. The scarves were waving goodbye.

T
here was a genuine sense of grief at breakfast. The news had spread fast and the committee were in a deep huddle. Rumours flew about that the conference would be cancelled, everyone sent home, money refunded. Two nervous women had already started packing.

The police had been around since the middle of the night. Scene-of-crime tape was flapping from posts all round the
shrubbery
and the old lake. The drive was littered with marked and unmarked police cars. The police photographer had been and taken his shots. The medical officer had also viewed the body and given his opinion. White-clad forensic experts were combing the scene.

Several of the smaller conference rooms had been set up as interview rooms. Apparently they wanted to talk to everyone: delegates, committee, conference and catering staff, speakers and visitors. It would take days.

‘We might as well carry on with the conference,’ said Fergus Nelson, stroking his severe beard. ‘It’ll help take people’s mind off the tragedy, and make it easier for the police if we are all in one place.’

‘It’ll be in the papers, on the news. Think of the free publicity,’ said the committee member in charge of publicity.

‘Not exactly an appropriate remark at the moment, Jo-Jo.’ Disapproving expressions all round. But it was, it could not be denied, still free publicity.

There was a moment’s hushed silence. The drowned woman
had been identified. A friend had reported her missing some time after midnight. Apparently they always had a cup of cocoa together on the stairs before retiring.

‘It’s Melody.’

‘Who?’

‘Melody Marchant, the speakers’ hostess. Always rushing about. She looked after the speakers. Very good at it, too. White hair, floaty clothes.’

Melody Marchant had been a popular delegate, at everyone’s beck and call. It was a sobering thought that she had drowned in such a beautiful lake. It had not yet been established if it was an accident or foul play; Jed was keeping his mouth firmly closed and his thoughts to himself.

Her husband, who was not a writer but a farmer, was driving up to Derbyshire straight away. They lived in Cornwall so it was a long journey and he was not expected to arrive until after lunch.

‘Everyone wants to know what’s happening,’ said Jessie. ‘We’ll have to tell them something.’

‘Let’s take a vote,’ said Fergus. ‘Yes, we carry on, or no, we disband the conference. I’m sure Melody would have wanted us to carry on. She loved the conference.’

The vote was taken. The vice chairman made a short announcement in the dining room at breakfast that there would be a special meeting in the main conference hall at 9.30 a.m. All delegates to attend.

There were no late-comers to this meeting. The hall was humming with subdued conversation long before Fergus strode onto the platform. He looked serious and not quite his usual assured self.

‘As you will all know by now, our dear friend, Melody Marchant, met with a fatal accident last night and drowned in the old lake.’

There was a universal gasp even though most people already knew who it was. It was the starkness of his words. No padding, no poetic phrasing, no emotion.

‘It is a very sad time for Northcote and for Melody’s husband and family, but I am sure she would have wanted the
conference
to continue as per its tradition of taking all disasters in its stride. If anyone feels that they would rather go home, then of course, they may. But the police may want to interview them before they go. Courses and lectures will resume after the coffee break.’

Fancy was surprised that the police wanted to interview everyone. If Melody had drowned herself or if it had been an unfortunate accident, then that could be established without statements from everyone. She would have to change the tone of her lecture: not so many jokes and nothing about death. It was too close at hand.

But Fancy was second on the list for interviewing. She and Jed had been first on the scene. She was shown into one of the small rooms off the main conference hall. It was been transformed with a desk, two chairs, phone, laptop and tape recorder.

‘Miss Francine Burne-Jones? Please sit down. I’m Detective Inspector Morris Bradley. I’m very sorry about the circumstances. It must be distressing for you. Was Melody a personal friend of yours?’

He switched on the tape and recited the usual time, date and personnel.

‘No, she was not a personal friend. I met her on Saturday
afternoon
for the first time. She was the hostess to speakers. She met me when I arrived and helped me find my way around.’

‘So you are not a regular delegate to the writers’ conference?’

He said ‘writers’ conference’ as though it was somewhere custodial for difficult delinquents, a detention centre for rejected writers.

‘No, I’m a guest speaker and course lecturer. I write crime novels.’

‘Really? So you know all about crime, do you? So we have another Agatha Christie on hand. Maybe we shall call upon you if we need assistance.’

‘I don’t commit the crimes,’ said Fancy. ‘Or solve them. I
invent plots and use my imagination to write a story. That’s what crime fiction is. A story.’

He nodded, steepling his fingers. Perhaps he thought it looked intelligent.

‘And do you have a fictional detective?’ DI Bradley was enjoying himself. He was a burly ex-Marine, never read a book unless it was a police manual. He tapped his pen on a notebook as if beating time to music.

‘Yes. She’s known as the Pink Pen Detective, because she always uses a pink pen.’ Fancy guessed that this conversation was supposed to be putting her at ease, getting her to relax, but he was making fun of her. Crime writing was never taken seriously by non-readers or reviewers. She wished he would get on with it.

‘Ah, such as this pink pen we found by the lake? Does this belong to your Pink Pen Detective?’ He pushed a plastic specimen bag across the table towards her. Inside was a pink biro.

Fancy recognized it straight away. It was one of hers.

‘No, it belongs to me. That’s my pen,’ she said. ‘I must have dropped it. Or it could be one of several that went missing yesterday after my lecture and someone else dropped it. The lake is not out of bounds to the writers.’

‘So you are the Pink Pen Detective? Ah, the plot deepens.’

‘I am not the Pink Pen Detective. She is my principal character and I write about her. Now, could you please ask me what you want to know? I have a lecture to give in twenty minutes.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me exactly what you were doing by the lake so late at night and who you were with,’ he asked smoothly.

‘You know perfectly well that I was with Jed Edwards. We were discussing writing problems.’ She was reining in her
impatience
.

‘By the lake? At nearly midnight?’

‘It was 11.33 exactly.’

‘How do you know the time exactly?’

‘I looked at my watch. It’s a habit.’

‘And why were you by the lake? Had you arranged to meet Melody? Was she upset about anything?’

Fancy groaned inwardly. She was not going to mention being drugged. ‘Jed took me to the lake because he thought it was a quiet place to be after a hectic day. No, I had not arranged to meet Melody. I have no idea if she was upset about anything. I hardly knew her.’

‘Yet you both found her.’

‘Because we were both there, Inspector. If anyone else had been there, they would have found her. I can’t see what this line of questioning is supposed to mean.’

‘I think it’s very strange that you should both choose to go to a remote lake in the middle of a garden so late at night. Unless, of course, you both had a reason.’

‘Our reason for going there had nothing to do with Melody.’

‘A romantic liaison, perhaps?’

‘One-track mind,’ Fancy muttered below her breath. ‘Hardly, Detective Inspector Bradley. I’m far too busy to have romantic liaisons, especially here at Northcote. My timetable barely gives me time to breathe.’

‘Yet you had time to go down to the lake at …’ he consulted his notes, ‘11.33 exactly. Very strange.’

DI Bradley switched off the tape recorder and stood up. ‘Thank you, Miss Burne-Jones. That’s all for the moment. I shall probably want to speak to you again, so I would be grateful if you did not leave Northcote.’

Fancy took a deep breath.

‘It’s plain Miss Jones, please. I have three more course lectures to give, a panel to sit on and my evening talk to deliver. It doesn’t look as if I shall be going anywhere, except rushing about Northcote, wondering where I am supposed to be next, losing my way and asking directions.’

But DI Bradley wasn’t listening. Fancy could put him in a book. It was always gratifying to put a rude, unpleasant person in a book and make awful things happen to them. She might think up something really nasty for him.

Fancy was glad that her second lecture and workshop went well despite the subdued atmosphere. The group were keen to
become crime writers and every word from Fancy Jones was gold dust. Her books were popular and well read. The delegates were also going to write best-sellers, as soon as they got home, as soon as they found the time, as soon as they got a good idea. They borrowed her pink pens, hoping they contained some magic elixir.

She was amazed at the number of writers who came to lectures and workshops with neither pen nor paper. No writer worth their pepper or salt ever set foot outside their front door without something to write on and something to write with. Even if it was a slab of slate and a piece of chalk.

‘Are you avoiding me?’ said Fancy as she joined the queue at the bar for a pre-lunch drink. She felt she deserved a drink. It was a long, impatient queue with a cheeky few jumping in by talking to someone well ahead of them.

‘No, not avoiding you,’ said Jed, looking grave. ‘But it might be diplomatic not to be seen together too much.’

‘Has the diplomatic Detective Inspector Bradley been hinting at a romantic liaison down by the lake?’

‘He asked me if you ever let your hair down.’

‘Is that what it’s called these days? And what did you say?’

‘I told him to mind his own bloody business.’

Jed gave his order for a beer to the bar staff, including a Campari and ice for Fancy. She took the tall pink drink and thanked him.

‘I thought you might need something stronger after your grilling,’ he said.

‘Are we allowed to sit at the same table in a crowded bar or is that too intimate? As you say, we need to be particularly careful. What else did you tell the nosy detective?’

‘I had to tell him about an argument I overheard yesterday afternoon. I didn’t mean to listen but it was a bit heated. It was Melody and our treasurer, whatever his name is. I can’t remember exactly. Richard Gerard? I sent him my cheque in February and that’s about all I know of him.’

They found a corner seat in the vinery. The big leaves of the
vine were abundant and hung like curtains. It had spread
everywhere
in the glass extension and they were shielded from calculating eyes. Here the chairs were cane-backed with orange padded seats and the tables topped with round glass.

‘What sort of argument?’

‘Nothing too spectacular. It was about expenses. She was
reimbursed
for her petrol costs and they were arguing over one of the receipts. Wrong date or wrong amount, something like that. Perhaps she drove here via Rannoch Moor, researching the Ice Age. I moved on. It was none of my business.’

‘Ice Age?’

‘Rannoch Moor was once a reservoir of ice, fed by glaciers from the ice cap.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I know lots of useless things. I read books.’

‘So maybe Melody was depressed. Perhaps she had been fiddling her expenses and was upset about being found out.’ The drink was bitter and strong and soothing. ‘Or maybe she
retaliated
and accused this Richard of helping himself to the school’s funds. Perhaps she had taken a closer look at last year’s accounts and spotted anomalies that didn’t add up. Could be.’

‘Motives for both suicide and murder.’

‘There you go.’

‘We are speculating, Fancy, using our writer’s imagination,’ said Jed. ‘We must wait and see what the pathologist says.’ He was looking at her over the froth of his beer. ‘Is your name really Burne-Jones?’

‘I only use the Jones half. I know what you’re going to ask. Edward Burne-Jones, the Victorian painter. I am descended from him, but I’m not sure how or from whom. And I do live in Fulham, which is another coincidence, though not at the Grange, which was where he lived and painted his wonderful paintings.’

‘You look a bit like his Greek model, Madame Maria Zambaco. She was very beautiful, striking in fact, exotic. Masses of dark hair.’

Fancy was stunned, forgetting her dark hair. ‘How do you know this?’

Jed shrugged. ‘I like his paintings. I have a few prints. For my eyes only, you understand. I would not have such romantic and passionate paintings on public display. Bad for my image.’

‘You never cease to surprise me,’ said Fancy. ‘An ex-copper who likes romantic Victorian paintings. And knows about the Ice Age.’

‘Surprises are what keep a relationship alive,’ he said.

Fancy reminded herself to jot down that phrase in her
notebook
. She would use it somewhere. She did not question whether their brief acquaintance could be regarded as a relationship, though; they were hardly at first-name stage.

‘Did you tell DI Bradley why we were at the lake?’

‘No, did you?’

‘No, I thought it would complicate matters if your strange happenings were linked to poor Melody when they are nothing to do with her. Someone else is out to scare you rigid, for some unexplained reason. I doubt if DI Bradley could cope with any complications. He likes everything to be straightforward.’

‘How will we know if it was an accident or suicide?’ Fancy drained the last of her Campari. The thirty-seven per cent alcohol was addictive.

‘I have a pal – another pal – who might be persuaded to tell me. Ah, the lunch queue is moving. We should sit at different tables.’