The Stately Home Murder (7 page)

Constable Crosby jumped palpably, and they both spun round.

A very old lady whose skirt practically reached her ankles was regarding them from a doorway. She was hung about with beads, which swung as she talked. Round her sparse gray hair and forehead was a bandeau and her hands were covered in the brown petechiae of arteriosclerotic old age. In her hand was the receiver of a hearing aid, which she held before her in the manner of a radio interviewer.

“You may have paid your half crown, my man, but that does not give you the run of the house.”

“Lady Alice?” divined Inspector Sloan.

The thin figure peered a little farther out of the doorway. “Do I know you?”

“No,” said Sloan.

“I thought not”—triumphantly—“because I'm not Alice. She's in there.”

“Lady Maude?” hazarded Sloan.

She looked him up and down. “That's right. Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

“We've come about Mr. Meredith,” said Sloan truthfully.

The beads—by now confused with the wire from the hearing aid to her ear—gave a dangerous lurch to starboard as she shook her head vigorously. “That man! Don't mention his name to me.”

“Why not?”

But Lady Maude was not to be drawn.

She retreated into the doorway again. “I never want to see him again.”

“You aren't going to,” muttered Crosby, sotto voce.

“Not after the things he said.” Lady Maude's voice had the variable register of the very deaf. “My sister and I are most upset. He used to take tea with us. We do not propose to invite him again.”

The door closed and Sloan and Crosby were left standing in the corridor.

“Dear, dear,” said Crosby. “Not to be invited to tea. That would have upset the deceased a lot, I'm sure.”

“But not, I fancy, enough to drive him to suicide,” murmured Sloan, trying to take his bearings from the corridor.

“It means something though, sir, doesn't it?”

“Oh yes, Constable, it means something all right, but what I couldn't begin to say. Yet.”

“No, sir.”

“Now to find our way out of here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lead on, Crosby,” he said unfairly. “After all, you are a detective constable.”

Charles Purvis, steward to the thirteenth Earl of Ornum, had no difficulty in finding his way about the great house and in his turn reported to his superior in much the same way as Sloan had done to his.

“I've arranged for the postmistress to ring us as soon as Miss Meredith gets back to The Old Forge, sir.”

His Lordship nodded. “And the boy?”

“Michael Fisher? I took the liberty of slipping him a pound, sir.”

“Good. Don't like to think of a man lying dead in the house and us not knowing.”

Purvis said, “We'd never have found him.”

“No.” The Earl waved a hand. “The boy's mother—what happened to her?”

“Mrs. Morley gave her tea and the inspector can see no reason why they shouldn't all go back in the charabanc with the rest of the party.”

“Thank God for that,” said his Lordship fervently. “The boy sounds a terror.”

“He is,” said Purvis briefly. “I've just been talking to the coach driver. He's all ready to go, but he's two short.”

“Not the boy and his mother?”

“No. A Miss Mavis Palmer and her boyfriend. Last seen three hours ago in the folly.”

“Were they?” said the Earl thoughtfully. “Well, get them found, Charles. And quickly. The sooner that particular coachload is off the premises the better. And then come back here. There are one or two other matters which need attending to.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Earl tugged his left-hand whiskers. “Charles.”

“Sir?”

“You'll have the press here by morning.”

The young man nodded. “I'd thought of that. Dillow is going to put them in the morning room and then get hold of me as quickly as he can.”

“Then there's my cousin and Eleanor.”

“Miss Gertrude is still in the china room, sir. I don't think the last of the visitors have quite gone yet. And Lady Eleanor is … er … cashing up at the front door.”

“They'll both have to be told.” The Earl waved a hand. “The house is full of police.”

This last was an exaggeration. Inspector Sloan and Constable Crosby had already been swallowed up by the house. And there would, in any case, have been room for the entire Berebury division in the great hall alone.

“Yes, sir,” murmured Purvis, who was not paid to contradict the Earl.

“And my aunts.”

“We're all right for the moment there, sir. They won't have been out yet. The visitors have hardly gone.”

“If I know them,” declared Lord Ornum, “they'll be abroad any minute now. On the warpath. Looking for damage.”

Purvis moved over towards the window. “We've got a little time anyway, sir. They'll wait until that coach has gone.”

The Earl sighed heavily. “And then, Charles, you'd better find out exactly where my nephew William has been all this week.”

Purvis hesitated. “I think he's down, sir …”

The Earl sighed again. “I thought he might be.”

“Someone told me that he was in The Ornum Arms last night,” said Purvis uneasily.

“Bad news travels fast.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then slip down to his cottage and tell him I want to see him, will you, there's a good chap. I think we'd better keep him in the picture in spite of everything.”

“Very well, sir.”

The Earl lifted an eyebrow. “You don't agree?”

Charles Purvis said carefully, “He's a very talkative young man, sir.”

“He gets that from his father.”

“Yes, sir, but it might do some harm …”

“He's my sister's boy, Charles. I can't have him kept in ignorance of trouble here.”

“No, sir.”

“After all”—a gleam of humor crept into the Earl's melancholy countenance—“we always hear when there's trouble there, don't we?”

“We do indeed,” agreed Charles Purvis grimly.

The first of the experts in death had arrived at Ornum House by the time Inspector Sloan and Constable Crosby got back to the armory. They were the two police photographers, Dyson and his assistant, Williams.

Dyson was standing by the door lumbered about with his equipment.

“Nice little place you have here, Inspector.”

“And a nice little mystery,” rejoined Sloan tartly.

Dyson looked up and down the two rows of armored figures. “Make quite a pretty picture, this will.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“The lab boys will think I've been to the waxworks or something.” Dyson walked forward. “Which is the one that didn't get away?”

“Second on the right,” said Sloan, “but we'll want some of the total setting, too.”

“A pleasure.” Dyson assembled his camera and tripod with a rapidity that belied his flippant approach. His assistant handed him something, there was a pause, and then a quick flash. “Don't suppose these chaps have seen anything brighter than that since Agincourt or something.”

Sloan was inclined to agree with him. There was an overall gloom about the armory that had nothing to do with the presence of the dead.

Williams, Dyson's assistant, was rigging up some sort of white sheet to one side of the suit of armor for the tilt, circa 1595. He had persuaded Crosby to stand holding one end.

“Need the reflected light,” explained Dyson.

Sloan nodded. Dyson never complained about his conditions of work. If he needed anything he brought it with him. He and Williams were self-sufficient members of the police team.

They moved their tripod in front of the suit.

“Inspector?”

“Well?”

“Open or shut?”

“Open
and
shut,” said Sloan. “Crosby's done the headpiece for fingerprints.”

“Close-helmet,” said Dyson.

“What?”

“Close-helmet,” repeated Dyson. “That's what it's called. Not headpiece.”

“Oh, is it?” said Sloan in neutral tones. “I must remember that.”

There was another bright flash. Then Williams moved forward and lifted the visor. Inspector Sloan was surprised again at the sight of the dead face.

“I remember,” said Dyson improbably, “when I was an apprentice photographer on the beach at Blackpool, people used to put their faces into a round hole like this …”

“Oh?”

“And we'd take a picture and they'd come up riding on the back of a sea-lion.”

“They did, did they?” said Sloan, “Well, let me tell you—”

“Or a camel, sir,” interposed Constable Crosby suddenly. He was still holding one end of the sheet. “I've been photographed riding on the back of a camel.”

Sloan snapped, “That's enough of—”

“This chap reminds me of that,” said Dyson, unperturbed. “Sort of stepping into a set piece, if you know what I mean, Inspector. Just the round face visible.”

“I know what you mean. Now get on with it.”

“Right-oh.”

But for the fact that their subject was dead, the pair of them might have been taking a studio portrait.

“Back a little.”

“A bit more to your right, I think.”

“What about an inferior angle?”

“Good idea.”

“Hold it.”

Quite unnecessarily.

“Now a closeup.”

“Just one more, don't you think?” Dyson turned. “Anything else, Inspector?”

Sloan grimaced. “I should think the only thing you two haven't done is to ask him to say ‘cheese.'”

“No need,” said Dyson ghoulishly. “The face muscles contract anyway when you're dead, and you get your facial rictus without asking.”

“I see.” It was perhaps as well that Dyson had gone in for photography. Knowing all the answers as he did would have got him nowhere on the police ladder of promotion.

Nowhere at all.

“He looks peaceful enough to me,” commented Dyson. “Any idea what hit him?”

“Not yet.”

“Plenty of weapons to choose from.” Dyson made a sweeping gesture that took in the whole collection. “Perhaps it was that one.”

“That's a spetum,” announced Constable Crosby, who was close enough to read the label.

“A what?” said Sloan.

“Spetum. Honestly, sir.”

“Is it indeed?” said Sloan.

“Often confused with a ranseur,” added Crosby, straight from the label.

“Well,” said Dyson, “I'd rather have that for my money than that nasty-looking piece over there.” He indicated a heavy-headed weapon studded with vicious-looking spikes. “What in the name of goodness is that?”

Crosby leaned over and read aloud, “That's a holy water sprinkler.”

“Well, I'm blessed,” said Dyson, for once strangely appropriate in the phraseology of his reaction. “And the one next to it?”

Crosby moved a step towards a ferocious iron ball on the end of a short chain. “That's called a morning star,” he said, “similar to a military flail.”

Dyson grinned. “Queer sense of humor the ancients had, didn't they?”

“They did,” said Sloan shortly.

Dyson swung his camera back on his shoulder and took the hint. “We'd better be going then.” He picked up the heavy tripod. “Williams?”

“Coming.”

“Williams.” Dyson pointed towards the suit of armor with the wrong end of the tripod. “Williams, it's closing time.”

Williams obediently moved forward and lowered the visor and they went.

Dillow put down the heavy silver tea tray.

Presently he would take away the silver teapot (Ann and Paul Bateman, 1792), the hot-water jug (Paul Storr, 1816), and the tray (unknown craftsman, 1807), clean them and stow them away in green baize in his pantry. For the time being he laid the tray on the kitchen table. Mrs. Morley, the housekeeper, would see to the china (Copeland) and the housemaid would deal with everything else.

Mrs. Morley looked at the butler. “I expect you could do with a cup of tea yourself, Mr. Dillow, after all that fuss and to-do.”

He sank into a chair. “That I could, Mrs. Morley, thank you. It's bad enough as it is on open days, but finding Mr. Meredith like that … oh dear, oh dear.”

“It's not very nice, I must say.” Mrs. Morley pursed her lips. “Dying is one thing—we've all got to go sometime, Mr. Dillow—but dying in a suit of armor …”

Dillow shook his head. Seen close, he was not as old as he seemed at first sight. It was simply that his occupation and bearing gave the impression of age. “I don't like it at all,” he said.

“The press will,” forecast Mrs. Morley, herself an avid reader of the more sensational Sunday newspapers.

The butler said, “I got quite accustomed to the press in my last position. My late employer … er … almost encouraged them. Always offered them a glass of something.”

“Ah, Mr. Dillow, but then he was in business.”

“Baggies Bearings,” said the butler promptly. “‘All industry runs on Baggies Bearings'—that was their advertising slogan. I think they did, too. No money troubles there.”

“Business is different,” insisted Mrs. Morley.

“Free advertising, that's what he called it every time there was anything in the papers. He used to say even having his art collection mentioned did the bearings a bit of good.”

“Well I never,” said Mrs. Morley, who could not have said offhand what a bearing was and who knew still less about advertising.

“Mind you,” said Dillow ominously, “once they got hold of a story there was no stopping them.”

Mrs. Morley looked disapproving. “I don't think his Lordship will favor them mentioning Ornum House.”

“They'll rake up everything they can lay their hands on,” warned Dillow.