The Art of Murder (Harriet Quigley Mystery)

  The Art of Murder

  Nicola Slade

  © Nicola Slade 2016

  Nicola Slade has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2016.

  This edition published by Endeavour Media Ltd in 2018.

  Dedication

  For Jan Janes, inspirational art teacher

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Acknowledgements

  There was so much blood.

  Gallons of it. Harriet gulped as she stood there, shocked and staring. A pond full of blood.

  How could that be?

  A fly settled on one of the blood-stained paving slabs that edged the pond and she clapped her hand to her mouth. Her shameful, involuntary thought was ‘Oh, God, all the fish in there will die.’

  *

  THE LOCKSLEY BULLETIN: VILLAGE NEWS

  *

  GOOD NEWS FOR BUDDING ARTISTS!

  Locksley Village is to have its own art group according to local artist, Linzi Bray, (pictured). She told the Bulletin: ‘Several residents of Locksley village used to belong to a Winchester art class that is now sadly defunct. With the news that the barn at Locksley Farm Place (also pictured) is to be opened up as a venue for hire, we decided to form our own group and are hoping to establish regular workshop sessions there for local artists.’

  Mrs Bray, who is an accomplished painter herself and whose work sells world-wide, told the Bulletin that the group is now open to new members but that’they must have attained a certain level of skill. There is no place for talentless beginners. Many of our members are semi-professional and we will not allow our standards to be lowered.’

  Artists interested in joining the group should get in touch with the Secretary, Mrs Fiona Christie, contact details below.

  Even before the first painting session, somebody died. Not long afterwards there was another death that left the artists unsettled and fearful – and then, when it was all over, somebody else died and that was the worst of all.

  Chapter 1

  LATE SEPTEMBER

  Tuesday evening

  Just after ten, Linzi Bray glanced at her watch. Should she head straight for the car park and get home or was there time for a quick drink? Why not? She’d left the car near the pub on the bridge. Meetings where there was no parking were always irritating, but it was still quite light and the late September evening was warm.

  She walked quickly, glancing warily in each direction; the river walk was well lit, there was nobody there and she could clearly see the bridge up ahead. Surely there was no need to worry, not here? She was too tired to go the long way round so she walked a few yards along the bank. See? Nobody here, not a soul. She stifled her fears and set off at a brisk march.

  Minutes later she was falling, falling …

  *

  Wednesday, late morning

  ‘You’re kidding, Harriet, tell me you’re kidding?’ It was almost a howl from Sam Hathaway as he stared at his cousin. ‘Let me get this straight, you’ve already signed us both up for a weekend art course without even asking me? You know perfectly well I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I was an engineer before I entered the Church. I understand printed circuit boards, not paintings. I’m a stereotype when it comes to art, for goodness’ sake. I know what I like and I tend to think most of the rest is rubbish!’

  Harriet Quigley nodded meekly, lowering her lashes to disguise her amusement at Sam’s indignation. She waited.

  ‘And on top of that you expect me to spend the whole weekend as a guinea pig in a bed and breakfast place that’s not even open yet?’ He was well away now. ‘With a bunch of amateur artists? And in Winchester, of all places, which is only five miles down the road from here. What on earth’s the point?’

  They were in the garden. Harriet put a slice of marmalade sponge cake on his plate and cut one for herself, sighing that she’d need to go for some long walks to avoid getting a spare tyre at this rate. It was no use trying to hurry Sam. She was often quicker on the uptake but he always had to deliberate over new ideas, examine all angles, spell them out and weigh them up. It drove her mad, but she wanted him to agree to this particular plan.

  Sam noticed that his usually voluble and opinionated relative was strangely silent as she waited for him to subside. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Why aren’t you saying something?’

  ‘I was letting you get it out of your hair,’ she said. ‘I knew you’d hit the roof but now you’ve had a rant about it, maybe you’ll listen while I explain?’

  ‘I’m not ranting.’ He sounded injured. ‘I’m just puzzled. It’s not as if you’re at all artistic either. I don’t get it, Hat, I really don’t.’

  Harriet passed her cousin a mug of tea which he drank thoughtfully, leaning back in the warm September sun while she outlined the reasons for this admittedly unlikely choice of weekend entertainment. ‘I’m not artistic, you’re perfectly right, but my friend, Fiona – you know her, one of my old teaching pals – she’s just been inveigled into becoming secretary of the new art group in Locksley.’

  Sam nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I saw some mention of that in the Locksley Bulletin. I didn’t realise she was involved.’

  ‘Well,’ said Harriet with a certain amount of asperity, ‘if you’d bothered to read the Bulletin properly you’d have known. Her phone number was there for the world to see and she’s not best pleased about that because she’s ex-directory. The thing is, the Chairman of the group, Linzi Bray, wangled a special rate for the fledgling Locksley Art Group for a weekend at this new B&B, but even so it’s still quite expensive so they’re short by three places. Fiona was at her wits’ end – club bank accounts don’t get an overdraft facility – so this Linzi woman put the group in jeopardy even before they’ve begun.’

  ‘Locksley Art Group,’ mused Sam. ‘Bet they’ll be known as the Old LAGs,’ he grinned as his cousin rolled her eyes. ‘So I take it you volunteered us to make up numbers. What were you thinking?’

  ‘If we go there’s still one vacancy, but the weekend is just about financially viable. The place sounds great and the gardens have been open for charity in the past so they’ll be worth seeing. Lighten up, Sam, we could both do with a weekend of molly-coddling after the last few months: slap-up breakfasts, home-baked cakes, that sort of thing.’

  She was right about needing a break. Sam, an honorary canon of Winchester Cathedral, had recently decided to take a kind of semi-retirement, combining acting as a locum clergyman when required, with taking charge of administration at the historic farmhouse just up the road from where Sam and Harriet now lived in their adjoining cottages. They had both been caught up in some traumatic events that had led to exciting discoveries, including the ruins of a Roman villa in the grounds. Now Sam was liaising with local authorities, tax officials, grants quangos and the thousand and one rules and regulations involved in turning the ancient house and redundant farm buildings into a paying proposition.

  Harriet looked hopefully at her cousin. ‘I know it’s not our usual thing but the group desperately needs to fill the rooms or the sums don’t add up. Not all the established members, or even potential ones, will be taking p
art. Fiona approached me rather tentatively because, as she said, you and I are community-minded and can drum up the cost of the weekend, which a lot of members simply can’t. She’s pretty fed up with the cavalier way this other woman ignored the plans they’d agreed, plus she’s left all the work to Fiona. There’s been a lot of ill-feeling about the change of plan and the cost, but nobody seems able to stand up to this Linzi Bray, so they’ve caved in. As Fiona says, it’s just a weekend, and she’s confident they can get back on track once the weekly meetings begin.’

  ‘Would I have to go to the classes?’ Sam was weakening. Harriet had unerringly fastened on his strong sense of duty and as a newcomer to the village, having moved there only at the end of July, he was anxious to do his bit. His forehead creased. ‘I’m not sharing a room, Harriet, not even with you.’

  She shook her head, relieved. ‘You don’t have to. We’re talking about two single rooms and you don’t have to join the classes if you don’t want to, though I’m planning to have a bash.’

  Harriet reached for the cake knife but halted as the two tabby cats approached. Her own cat, Dylan, skittered across the lawn and climbed on to Sam’s shoulder, while Hector, who nominally lived with Sam, thudded towards her and clambered up on her lap.

  ‘Here, one more slice, then I’m putting it away,’ she cut the cake. ‘Now we’ve opened up the door between our two houses, you never know where the cats are. I woke up this morning thinking there was an organ recital on the radio, but Hector was visiting and they’d both crept upstairs and were purring on my bed.’ She held her plate out of the fat cat’s way. ‘Cheer up, Sam, the weekend will be fine, we might even enjoy it. You already know Fiona; Avril got on well with her too.’ At the mention of his dearly loved late wife, Sam’s face tightened slightly and Harriet lightly touched his arm as she added : ‘It’ll be something different and you’ll get to know a few more people from the village, which is all to the good. What can go wrong?’

  Sam stroked the skinny, younger cat and sighed. ‘Full English breakfast, eh? It does sound good value, all things considered. Okay, as long as I’m not expected to join in, but next time, check with me first, before you volunteer me.’

  She allowed Sam the last word. When Fiona had dropped in for coffee, she’d been on edge and Harriet had wheedled the story out of her. ‘I’m at my wits’ end,’ Fiona had confessed. Harriet had no intention of admitting to Sam that she wasn’t sure where the suggestion that they could help had come from. Had Fiona asked outright, or had she subtly persuaded her old friend into offering? The idea was a fait accompli before Harriet could draw breath.

  Sam was swayed by the promise of good food and relaxation, but there were a couple of potential bugbears she forbore to mention. Well, one bugbear, really.

  ‘My only real problem,’ Fiona said as she sat in Harriet’s kitchen, ‘is our Chairman. The rest of us are the usual motley lot though we get on well enough, but Linzi is an arch-manipulator. She plays politics and is best friends with one person one minute, then it’s on to a different one. Why on earth she bothers, I have no idea. We’re a bunch of amateur artists with no influence in the world.’ Fiona sighed. ‘She’s also a foxy man-eater who collects scalps and can’t resist making a beeline for other people’s husbands.’

  Fiona, tucking Harriet’s deposit cheque in her folder, had then looked thoughtfully at her friend. ‘You’d better keep an eye on Sam too; as far as I can see no man is safe from Linzi!’ Of course Sam would be safe, Harriet had rolled her eyes. He was still quietly faithful to the memory of Avril, his beloved wife who had been Harriet’s best friend. Besides, he was used to dealing with advances from female parishioners. He’d be fine.

  *

  Wednesday afternoon

  ‘I really, really hate her.’ Clare Yarrow looked over her shoulder as she heard her husband take off his boots in the utility room. She let fall the curtain as he ambled into the long kitchen with its windows at either end.

  ‘Who?’ George Yarrow looked down his long, pointed nose and made for the sink while his wife’s shoulders heaved in a martyred sigh as she sneaked another look out of the front window.

  ‘That woman, of course,’ she snapped.’I hate her big posh house, and her posh clothes and her big, posh car. I’ve just seen a brand new sofa being delivered; must have cost a fortune. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Life’s not fair.’

  ‘Oh well, take her side, why don’t you?’

  ‘As if. I can’t stand the woman, as you know full well. Anyway, I thought you were going out.’

  ‘Cramping your style, eh? Her, with her face-lifts and silicone implants and all that money. You wouldn’t be the first man I’ve seen sneaking in through the back door – there’s another one lately, hanging around outside, bald as a coot. She’s probably a high-class tart for all we know, which would explain where the money comes from, now that poor husband of hers has done a runner.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ Damn, he thought. He’d hoped Clare was out so he could glue up the Spitfire Mk.vb/Trop in the attic. It was shaping up to be an interesting model. He threw the last of his carrots into the sink with an angry thump and jerked the tap viciously so he could scrub them. Time to think about spring cabbages in; he was late this year. He directed a bitter glare at the solid figure of his wife as she peered round the curtain. Bloody woman, her fault he was behind with his planting schedule, making all that fuss, dragging him off to her cousin’s funeral when he could have been in the garden. She didn’t even like her family.

  Her fault he had to spend all his time trying to escape her clutches by retreating to his treasures in the attic. At least up there he could batten down the hatch and lose himself happily as he worked on his Spitfire models.

  Clare twisted round at his comment and did her ‘poor me’ face but he ignored it. ‘I don’t care what you say, George, I hate her, I wish—’

  George glanced at her and blinked at the fleeting malevolence of her expression. He shrugged. ‘Shut up about her, for God’s sake.’ His own intense dislike of their neighbour boiled over. ‘That woman is a bloody menace,’ he added. ‘The nerve of her, letting her bindweed come through into our garden and then claiming it was nothing to do with her.’ His thick grey eyebrows met in an angry frown and he turned away jerkily. ‘Not to mention her lies, claiming the light from my attic keeps her awake at night. We could have had some decent neighbours,’ he snarled. ‘People with the right idea about neighbourliness and keeping their garden tidy. She’ll get her comeuppance one of these days, mark my words.’

  *

  Wednesday afternoon

  Linzi Bray hunched on the kitchen stool and listened to the silence.

  She thought she could still hear the echo of the ring-tone but for now there was nothing. She closed her eyes and rocked herself, arms folded across her chest, hands clutching, trying to simulate a warm embrace, a sympathetic friend. Some kind of comfort.

  Fat chance.

  The rumble of the washing machine was company in the empty house, but she shuddered. Last night had been a nightmare jumble of sopping wet clothes, bedraggled hair, tights torn to shreds, shock and pain – and fear.

  What happened? How did I fall into the river? Did I miss my footing? Was I pushed? Her thoughts shied away from the memory.

  She held her breath and waited. The landline would ring again, it always did. For the past ten days the calls had been as regular as clockwork – and just as efficient and relentless. All day, every day, every night, on the hour at first but it had changed. At random moments now the phone rang and when she dialled the answer service, it was always the caller withheld their number. There was no sense of someone listening. No heavy breathing. Just silence.

  Was it really happening? Or was it only in her head? Was she mad?

  Now, after a count of a hundred, the phone rang again. She took a deep breath and picked up the handset,’Hello?’

  Nothing.

  No answer.

  Si
lence.

  *

  Thursday morning

  ‘Isn’t it enough that you’ve bullied Sam and me into this arty weekend of yours? I hope you’re not thinking of making me join the group too?’ Harriet was only half-joking. She’d dropped in to let Fiona know two of her vacancies were now filled, and found her handing out coffee to a couple of neighbours. ‘This looks suspiciously like an official committee meeting’

  ‘Hardly,’ Fiona winked at her. ‘It’s just the secret sub-committee that gets everything done, provided we can stop Linzi interfering.’

  ‘She’s beyond a joke though, isn’t she? What are we going to do about her?’ Nina Allison, Treasurer of the embryo group, shook her small neat head without disarranging a single highlighted hair.

  Tall, whippet-thin Jess Tyndall frowned in agreement. ‘There’s not much we can do, is there? She got herself voted in as Chairman …’

  ‘You mean Chair!’ It was a snort of derision from Nina. Harriet turned an enquiring glance in the direction of Fiona, who sighed,

  ‘Hah! I explained that a human being cannot be an inanimate object like a piece of furniture, but she stared at me with a complete lack of comprehension.’

  ‘Poor old Fiona,’ Harriet was sympathetic but amused. ‘This is no century for a picky pedant, I’m afraid. So your Chairman is more PC than the rest of you?’

  ‘Only when it suits her.’ Jess, who, according to Fiona, had something of a fixation with all things Arthurian and painted large pictures in an exclusively pre-Raphaelite style, nodded. She took a sip from her mug and rearranged the folds of her mediaeval-looking tunic to stop her sleeve dangling in her coffee. Harriet was disappointed not to hear an occasional ‘forsooth’ or ‘gadzooks’ as Jess continued. ‘Mind you, that’s not the only thing about her that bugs us. She used to belong to another art club and had only been a member of our own Winchester class for a term when we disbanded. In the course of those ten weeks I think she managed to upset every member of the group.’ She frowned.