The Art of Murder (Harriet Quigley Mystery) Page 3

  She fought the temptation to tell him about the stalker. Surely it couldn’t just be a figment of Linzi’s imagination? Harriet brushed it aside; after all, she had promised to keep quiet.

  ‘It was all going well, everyone fired up, when this Linzi Bray woman, who is something of a bête noire to Fiona, swanned in and announced that she’d booked a residential course in Winchester.’ She paused, with a giggle. ‘Sorry,’ she said, as Sam raised his eyebrows. ‘The house is called Tadema Lodge, which just struck me as extremely appropriate for an art group.’

  ‘Alma-Tadema the artist?’ Sam was interested. ‘What did he do? Own it? Paint it?’

  ‘Stayed in it apparently, not long after it was built in 1901 and the then owner, who was a great groupie, promptly renamed the house after him. I wonder if he was flattered.

  ‘The owners’ official launch is next month but Linzi says they jumped at the chance of a trial run. One of the planks of their business plan for the B&B is that they’ll offer speciality weekends as and when they think of them.

  ‘An art weekend should be a nice, trouble-free way to start.’

  Chapter 2

  Thursday evening

  Linzi Bray was in two minds as to whether she would go to the drinks reception at Winchester Great Hall. Tuesday night’s fall preyed on her mind and the painful bruising was a constant reminder that somebody wanted to harm her. Perhaps. She refused to consider the other possibility. I’m not mad, she told herself fiercely and forced herself to go to the party.

  After 48 hours the gash on her leg looked less angry so she no longer had to keep changing the dressing, but she had opted for a large Elastoplast with a tubular bandage on top as extra protection. She had second thoughts about wearing her cream silk trousers in case the bleeding started up again so she changed to a black pair, just to be safe.

  She found a space in the big car park at the top of the High Street and her tension began to ease very slightly. A straight run of green lights, plenty of room on the ground floor by the exit, the street lights outside: all gave her confidence that the short journey from here to the Great Hall could be accomplished in safety. A couple of deep breaths calmed her; no point getting in a state, she told herself. I’m going to a fundraising reception for the great and good of the city, and that includes me. Nobody will hurt me there.

  A grey car drove past and she shrank into her seat. It was all right; the car sailed on up the ramp to the upper storey. Of course there would be other people driving in, but she was extra vigilant tonight. She gritted her teeth, took another nervous glance round, and limped as quickly as she could towards the High Street.

  Linzi crossed the road, paused for a moment, and took out a small mirror. As she checked her hair and make-up, she froze. Tiny in the reflection she could see a figure poised on the opposite kerb, as though waiting to cross over – a figure wearing jogger bottoms and a hoodie. She waited, too shocked to move, and although the road was quite clear the figure also waited.

  Her heart thudded in her chest as she sucked in a great breath of air, gasping and gulping. Instead of hurrying across the paved courtyard into the warmth and light of the Great Hall, she scuttled in blind panic to her left. Floodlighting showed up the cobbles but in a shadowy corner formed by two high walls there stood some kind of tree with plenty of dark green leaves to provide cover. She slid into the meagre space behind it, holding her hands to her breast as she tried to contain her terror.

  Oh God! She sucked in a breath as another figure appeared, then her chest gradually stopped heaving as she realised this was someone different. It was not the sinister hooded character but a young woman, slightly built, wearing jeans and a light top, with a scarf covering her hair. Across the courtyard a group of party-goers headed for the entrance to the Hall.

  Linzi slid a nervous glance at the young woman who was now standing at the top of the flight of stone steps leading down to the ruins of the Norman castle. The girl was fiddling with her bag and she looked up in surprise as Linzi slipped out from her hiding place.

  It was just a pretty girl, bent on taking her mobile out of her bag. Linzi stumbled as she sagged with relief. Nothing to worry about, so she summoned up a wavering smile and, keeping away from the Great Hall, made her escape. There was a long dark streak on the shoulder of her pale silk top where she must have brushed against the tree but she scarcely noticed it as she headed back to the car park, determined to get home as soon as possible, all thought of the reception abandoned.

  *

  Friday morning

  Harriet muttered to herself as she glanced at the clock. For heaven’s sake, it was still only 6.30am. She had been tossing and turning for what seemed like hours so she reached for the remote to turn on the local radio news. The breakfast show presenter was discussing the sad death of a young French student who had been found at the bottom of a flight of stone steps near the Great Hall.

  ‘Juliette Bélanger, aged 19, a student from Rouen, was here at the start of a 12-month English course,’ he said. ‘Although there was a well-attended reception taking place at Winchester Great Hall only yards away, it seems nobody heard or saw anything of her fall. She was discovered unconscious at 9.45pm by a passer-by but she died in the ambulance.

  ‘A police spokesman said that the death was not thought to be suspicious at this stage and that all the indications were that Miss Bélanger’s death was a very sad accident. Her parents are on their way to the UK and a post-mortem will be carried out in the next few days’

  Harriet wasn’t surprised when they wheeled out an expert; they always did in these situations. This one, an authority on the ancient buildings of the city, was asked for a brief history of the castle with particular reference to the steps where the accident had occurred.

  ‘Winchester Castle was built in 1067 and was mostly destroyed by Cromwell. The stone staircase in question, and the fragments nearby, are all that remain of a tower that formed part of the castle wall,’ he explained.’They lead down to three restored passage-ways that once led out to the moat. It’s a sad thing to reflect that a young girl should meet her end in a place that long ago was steeped in warfare and death.’

  The expert paused to accommodate further murmurs of regret then reported a theory he had overheard on the way to the studio. ‘As with all historic ruins there are warning notices in place and the lighting by those steps, indeed that whole area, is excellent, but I did hear an unofficial suggestion that this poor young woman’s mobile phone was found beside her. It’s possible that she missed her footing at the top of the steps while texting.’

  The radio host broke in hastily. ‘Well, Professor, as you say, that’s just speculation but for now all we can do is to send our condolences to the bereaved family.’

  Harriet drank her tea, saddened by the report. Such a pointless, tragic way to die for someone so young and so far away from home.

  *

  Linzi had taken a sleeping pill and was not awake in time to hear the local breakfast show. In any case, she preferred the television news in the kitchen while she downed a black coffee. At first she only half-listened until the reporter mentioned the Great Hall. Looking up at the TV, she was appalled to see firstly a shot of the place where she had taken refuge, and secondly a photograph of a pretty, smiling girl, slightly-built, with a tousled crop of chestnut hair – a girl who, though glimpsed so briefly the previous evening, was only too familiar.

  She started to shake and had to hold her mug of coffee with both hands as she lifted it to her lips, staring blankly over the rim.

  *

  Elsewhere in the city and the surrounding countryside people watched and listened with varying degrees of shock, sadness, and a fleeting pang for a life too soon cut short.

  Chapter 3

  Friday evening

  Harriet heard Sam suck in a sharp breath which he then exhaled in a muffled groan.

  ‘Here we are!’ Fiona Christie’s voice was determinedly bright; definite echoes there thought Har
riet, with an inward smile, of her friend’s decades of teaching four- and five-year-olds. ‘Listen, everyone. I want you all to welcome Bonnie Mercer, who has kindly rescued our inaugural weekend. Bonnie had already signed up to join the group when we get going, and by some miracle she’s managed to rearrange her weekend which puts us into the black regarding the cost.’

  ‘I hope nobody drops out at this point or it’ll be like the Waterloo Ball where the officers all left the dance floor to go off to the battle,’ Harriet murmured to Sam, who wasn’t listening. In the flurry of greetings Harriet realised he was recovering from whatever had shocked him and that years of masking his feelings had come to his rescue. He had himself in hand when the newcomer, light glinting off her glasses, advanced on him with an eager greeting.

  ‘Reverend Hathaway! How wonderful! I had no idea you’d be here!’ In a surprisingly high, breathy voice, Bonnie Mercer flung herself excitedly at Sam, who shrank away from the kisses she planted on either cheek. Only for a moment though; Harriet wasn’t surprised to see her cousin rally. After 30 years in a dog-collar Sam was used to over-familiarity from besotted females, though nowadays there was no Avril to protect him. The squarely built woman had a tremor of emotion in her voice. ‘Last time I saw you your aura was dark – terribly dark, and full of the most dreadful despair – but now I’m so glad to see that it’s a clear blue. You’ve regained your balance now and are at peace, thanks be.’

  Harriet blinked at the mention of an aura but gave in to the pleading in his eyes.

  ‘How do you do?’ she responded to Sam’s introduction of: ‘My cousin, Harriet Quigley.’ She held out a hand to forestall another bout of kisses but there was no need. Bonnie’s sights were clearly set on Sam and Sam alone.

  ‘The Reverend’s cousin? Of course, I remember seeing you. You were very friendly with the Reverend’s wife, poor soul.’

  Biting her tongue at this casual dismissal of her dearest friend, Harriet’s smile was forced as she nodded.’It’s all first names here, do call him Sam.’ She made an effort. ‘We’re last-minute additions to the weekend too. Are you looking forward to it?’

  ‘What? Oh yes,’ Bonnie Mercer was gazing pensively at Sam but she turned back to Harriet.’Your own aura is troubled, you know,’ she said suddenly. ‘Some difficult times lately, you’re weighed down by recent events. I’m not a psychic, my expertise is with crystals and dream-catchers and some herbal remedies, but I do see auras and I can help you, Harriet. I can work with you, using the crystals, or I could prescribe a tisane to bring you comfort. We must talk.’

  ‘Before I moved to the Diocesan Office, Miss Mercer was a neighbour of mine and very active in parish affairs,’ Sam broke in hastily. He included the other weekend residents who were nearby as, with a gleam of reluctant amusement in his blue eyes, he registered the outrage on Harriet’s face. He managed to detach himself as Fiona introduced other members of the group, and slid away to put himself under his cousin’s protection.

  ‘I’ll give her auras,’ Harriet whispered fiercely, glaring across the room. ‘I should think mine’s likely to go up in flames. Do I look troubled? And you can stop laughing, Sam. You’d better stick close to me, she’s got her sights firmly set on you.’ Harriet watched the other woman as she was welcomed into the group. ‘I’ve known some real herbalists in my time and I’ve known a few witches too – sensible women, most of them. The ones I’ve known didn’t go round touting for business.

  ‘I suppose she looks harmless, though that’s a surprising amount of eye make-up lurking behind the prim glasses. You know what? With that neat, mousy hair tucked back in a velvet headband she looks more stereotype librarian than sky-clad sorceress.’

  ‘Witches? Really?’ he grinned. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Are you sure you—? He was quelled by a chilly stare and carried on, his eyes gleaming with amusement. ‘Anyway, she’s all right, just not my cup of tea,’ he said in a low murmur, looking irritated once more. ‘So yes, please do protect me. She was always terribly needy, ringing up at all hours, and in the end I found it hard to keep up the professional sympathy. Luckily she moved in with the local vet and left me alone for a while.

  ‘Besides, she drove Avril mad with her herbal brews, not to mention the intrusive sympathy. She first arrived about seven years ago and worked as a kind of peripatetic carer.’ He shrugged. ‘Still does, I think. She was pleasant enough, but as I said, she was endlessly needy. I did try to be helpful.’ He glanced round to make sure Bonnie was nowhere in earshot.

  ‘When she broke up with the vet,’ he went on, ‘she signed up to some course on hedgerow remedies. It seemed to supply whatever needs she’d had previously, so she stopped bothering me so much. Trouble was, that although I had no problem with it, certainly not enough for me to take an official interest, she was still full of it when Avril was diagnosed and she kept turning up with nasty herbal potions, bound to be a cure she said.’ His face darkened. ‘She kept trying to smuggle in pots of balm and lotions to Avril at the hospice, so I told her to stay away. He turned aside for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t have minded if Avril had wanted to try them, but she really didn’t. You know what she was like.’

  Yes, she did know. Avril had been a no-nonsense realist and by the time she was in the hospice she had no illusions about miracle cures. Harriet squeezed his arm and directed a frosty glare at the offender who was talking to someone else now but every so often directed a languishing glance at her erstwhile parish priest. Sam, though not bad-looking, was no movie star as to looks, but a combination of his office and his easy, unconscious charm, made him a target for unwanted advances.

  ‘Where did she spring from?’ she asked Sam, vaguely aware of something in Bonnie’s speech.

  ‘Moved here from Suffolk, I think,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ Harriet shrugged.

  ‘A slice of cake, Mr Hathaway?’ It was their hostess, owner of Tadema Lodge. ‘We make everything from scratch; Hughie’s the chef, but I’m the baker.’

  In her early 50s, Eve Paget, a short woman in a business-like grey top and trousers, with her dark hair in a bun, was a stark contrast to her over-sized husband who, Harriet noted, had to be well over 6ft tall and at least 17-stone. Well, she thought, they said ‘never trust a skinny cook’. He had made a brief appearance five minutes earlier but looked as though he longed to escape to his kitchen.

  ‘This is a lovely house, so filled with light,’ Harriet remarked, indicating the apse-like bay window with its glowing stained-glass centre panel. ‘It’s a marvellous example of the Arts and Craft style, isn’t it? My family were all architects but I went into teaching instead.’ She smiled and admired the gracious proportions of the drawing room. ‘I was brought up in a house that was built in 1910, though it wasn’t one of the family designs. Was this a B&B previously? It’s ideally situated – and how lucky you are to have plenty of room for parking. It’s at such a premium in Winchester.’

  ‘It was a wrench having to lose the garden at that side – Hughie was in mourning,’ smiled Eve. ‘His parents bought the house donkey’s years ago. It had been a boarding-house for Winchester College and needed a lot of work, so they restored the big rooms, tearing down partitions and so forth. When Hughie’s dad died, his mother lost heart until about 18 years ago when her arthritis was becoming more of a trial. That’s when she hit on the idea of inviting a few other lonely friends to move in and pool resources.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ Harriet was interested.

  ‘Between them they could afford a cook, a cleaner and even a nurse occasionally. Of course it couldn’t last; old ladies came and went and eventually faded gently away. About eight years ago Hughie was offered redundancy so we came back here.

  Eve shivered. Hughie looked fine, nodding shyly as Sam Hathaway had a word. Hughie looked … normal. If only Linzi Bray, as she called herself now, hadn’t barged back into their lives leaving Eve balanced on a keg of dynamite and praying Hughie would never realise what was
going on. No, Hughie must never find out because if he did she couldn’t bear to think how he would react. It could be a catastrophe.

  She carried on. ‘We jumped at the chance to take on the house. We only had a window-box in our London flat and Hughie loves gardening, so he’s lavished love and attention on the place. He also did a Cordon Bleu cookery course while I looked after his mum and the last of the other old ladies. Our long-term plan was that once they’d gone we’d start up a B&B as it’s so ideally situated. Both boys are working in London so, after a massive revamp, here we are.’

  Harriet noticed that uneasy flicker. It was natural enough to worry about the outcome of this trial weekend, they probably had everything riding on the success of the B&B. She glanced round the well-proportioned drawing room with its cream-painted panelling adorned, appropriately enough, with good reproductions of paintings by Lawrence Alma-Tadema. The room had a period look without being overly precious and she approved the leafy green William Morris curtains and Arts and Crafts-style furniture.

  Hughie Paget seemed quiet and slightly bovine – large men often were, she reflected – and she could see nothing obvious to account for his wife’s anxiety. Well, she caught herself up; wounds weren’t always evident to the naked eye. Perhaps Eve was a perennial worrier and as for Hughie – as far as she could tell the host of the new B&B was what he purported to be: a gardener and talented cook who burned to bring his art to a wider audience.

  Hughie headed for the kitchen leaving Sam with Nina Allison. Harriet smiled in sympathy, even Sam was clearly finding the Treasurer hard going. ‘I gather many of you are semi-professional. How on earth do you find the time?’

  Nina nodded. ‘A lot of them are retired, of course,’ she said. ‘It’s inevitable when you have a group that meets during the day, but I work four full days at a building society, Monday to Thursday, so I can easily make the class on Friday afternoon.’