The Art of Murder (Harriet Quigley Mystery) Read online

  Harriet considered the amount of water she’d been drinking and decided on another quick trip to the Ladies’ before the walk back to Tadema Lodge. She did what she had to, then with her hand on the latch of the cubicle door she paused as she heard voices just outside.

  ‘You listen to me!’ It was Jess’s voice, ragged with anger. ‘Stay away from Bill, do you hear?’

  ‘What?’ That was Linzi, honey-sweet. ‘Goodness, Jess, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Are you quite well?’

  ‘You know what I mean!’ Jess took a deep breath. ‘Just because Bill’s in the planning office doesn’t mean he’ll let your crooked scheme through. It won’t be passed. Nobody can get permission to build that close to the cathedral.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Linzi purred. ‘He obviously doesn’t tell you everything, doesn’t that worry you? Actually Bill’s very interested in my plan, you know. He’s not at all averse to giving it some consideration.’ With that she neatly cut the ground from under Jess’s feet by disappearing into the other cubicle.

  Harriet heard the outer door slam and judged it safe to emerge. Good, no sign of Jess and presumably Linzi was otherwise engaged. She washed her hands and made a swift exit, rubbing her hands dry down the side of her linen trousers.

  Jess Tyndall was standing at the back of the group with a forbidding expression which didn’t surprise Harriet who slipped past to pay for her meal. ‘Well, that was interesting,’ she thought, with a tiny shiver of distaste. ‘Eavesdropping now,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m turning into a snoop.’

  As they gathered at the doorway, there was another ping and everyone patted pockets or bags or looked blank until Linzi, apparently unruffled by Jess’s accusation, pulled her mobile out of her Gucci bag. Her eyes widened as she read the text, and with a sharp cry she dropped the phone and ran back to the Ladies’.

  Fiona rushed after her while Harriet hesitated, wary of getting involved. Nina Allison reached out a hand and picked up the mobile from where it lay on the table.

  ‘Well?’ Her voice held that malicious note again. ‘I’m surely not the only one who wants to know what could frighten a woman like Linzi.’ She stared at them with a scornful expression. ‘What a load of hypocrites you are. You’re just as nosy as I am but you won’t admit it.

  ‘Oh!’ she pouted in disappointment as she read the text. ‘It just says “Boo!”’

  This was met with uneasy silence as one by one the remaining members of the group turned away towards the door.

  By some common impulse there was no discussion as they walked back to the house and dispersed quietly to their rooms. Fiona escorted a subdued Linzi up the few steps but Harriet noticed that Jess held back. ‘Until just now I would have thought that a bit odd,’ she mused. ‘I didn’t think she had a problem with Linzi; irritated by her, yes, but she was joking about her only the other day. She’s definitely furious with her now and no wonder, if what she said is true.’

  Harriet glanced again at the tall figure clad in that greyish overdress. ‘She’s like one of the pre-Raphaelite women, a Burne-Jones, maybe,’ she thought as she watched Jess staring at Linzi’s departing back view.

  Within less than an hour Tadema Lodge was quiet apart from the sound of a shower or a bath being emptied.

  Harriet was tired. Dinner had been delicious but she wasn’t used to eating so much or so late and the undercurrents had disturbed her. Jess’s husband too – what was that about? She couldn’t consider it just now so she clambered into bed, too weary even to read.

  She slept fitfully until very early in the morning.

  *

  Donald managed to catch a couple of hours and then drowsed until about 2am when the familiar longing made further sleep impossible. He tossed and turned, put the light on to read and switched it off when nothing seemed to help. He was just wondering about coffee when he realised that Madeleine, in the next room, was also up and about. Solidly-built though the house was, their two bedrooms had been created from one enormous room – originally the music room on the first floor, according to Eve Paget – so it was just about possible to hear movement through the partition wall. He identified some of the noises: a thump was a pillow thrown to the floor; a creaking came from a Victorian bed probably similar to his own; a door opened and closed; a lavatory flushed and there was the sound of running water.

  ‘Dare I?’ He chewed at his moustache and he shivered in spite of the warmth of the night air. The answer was immediate: ‘You must. If you don’t, you’ll slide back down the snake again.’

  He grabbed his jacket and slipped out to knock very quietly on the door to the adjoining room.

  ‘Donald?’ Madeleine had flung a cardigan round her shoulders and she gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Is it a fire?’ She took another look and opened the door more widely. ‘Here, you’d better come in.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his confidence ebbing away. ‘I just thought – oh, God, it’s so difficult. I woke up and I couldn’t stop thinking …’ He ran his fingers through what was left of his hair and stared shame-facedly at her. ‘I … I keep away from alcohol. I never have it in the flat and I don’t go to pubs – not ever. This evening was hard but I was quite pleased with myself and it helped that you and Harriet didn’t …’ He was sweating now and stammering. ‘The thing is, Madeleine, there’s a sideboard full of booze in the dining room and I’m shit-scared I’ll go downstairs and start in on it.’

  There was compassion and fellow-feeling in her eyes as she took his hand and drew him into her room.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she pointed to an armchair and busied herself with the kettle. ‘Is instant coffee okay?’ She gave a half-smile as he sat nervously on the edge of the chair. ‘Thank goodness you had the sense to come to me – you realised, didn’t you? It takes one to know one. You can stay here for the rest of the night, the bed’s big enough and you needn’t worry, I won’t cry rape!’

  Over coffee Donald asked hopefully: ‘Are you into jazz, at all?’

  She smiled. ‘Not really, but I’m open to persuasion. Are you into Thomas Tallis?’

  ‘Not really, but …’ they both laughed and relaxed until Donald said: ‘I notice you seem to run about after Linzi Bray. Is she a great friend of yours?’

  ‘A friend?’ Madeleine’s voice shook. ‘She’s blackmailing me. I hate her.’

  ‘What on earth …’ Donald moved over to sit beside her on the bed and he reached out to take her hand in his large, warm clasp.

  ‘Oh, not for money,’ Madeleine whispered, ‘but she knows my history and she threatened to tell everyone in the village. How could anyone be so cruel?’ She shook her head in wonder. ‘She was so sweet at first but then, I don’t know, somehow I found I was waiting on her hand and foot. I know I have to stand up to her. Nobody would be that horrified by my story anyway, but I don’t know if I can …’

  Her eyes met his. ‘I … I can’t tell you now, I’ll need to work up to it. It’s funny, I’ve never talked about it to anyone, but somehow,’ she brushed a hand across her eyes, ‘somehow I think I might be able to tell you.’

  He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘I know what you mean. I don’t talk either, but yes, when you’re ready …’ he murmured, and she ducked her head gratefully. ‘I won’t be shocked, God knows,’ he added.

  ‘Thank you, Donald. I wanted to start afresh and although I kept lapsing at first I’ve been dry now for years, and I fell in love with the idea of living in Locksley a year or so ago. Most people are friendly but when Fiona invited me to join the art group, I went to try one of the classes, the whole thing promptly folded. She was there – Linzi. She was one of our – my – neighbours in London, you see, and she knew about me.’

  ‘Now you listen to me.’ Donald felt strongly protective towards this unhappy woman. ‘We’ll face her down together. I’m in much the same position. I’ve not touched a drop for ages, since April Fools’ Day seven years ago. It seemed an appropriate date to start,�
� he said, his bony features lightening with a wry smile. ‘Like you, I’m not sure I can come right out with it at the moment, but when I’m ready, I believe you’ll be the first person I confide in.’

  His expression changed and he looked downcast as he continued. ‘I was a teacher, of course, and there was a … an incident with a pupil.’

  At her involuntary recoil he exclaimed in horror. ‘Oh, good God, no – it wasn’t like that! I’m a fool but definitely not a paedophile, please don’t think it. Something happened when I was drunk in charge of a class so naturally I was kicked out and my reputation went with me.

  ‘I haven’t taught in a school since then. I was ashamed. I’ve muddled along – adult evening courses and so forth – but ironically, on my first trip to Winchester in ages, Linzi hailed me. She worked part-time in the bursar’s office at the school all those years ago and she knew about me. She was all sweetness and light and the upshot was that she offered me the chance to teach this weekend. There’d be no fee of course but if I carried it off half decently she’d consider not letting out my dirty little secret.’

  *

  Bonnie closed her eyes and tried to clear her head. Sadness was her constant companion, had been so for more years than she cared to acknowledge. You moved around the country but people still let you down; lovers would walk away or they would die. Pets gave a temporary respite from loneliness and misery, but they died too. The various jobs and hobbies – gardening, flower arranging, book groups, even the crystals and herbal studies – all of these had been tried and ultimately shown up for the empty pursuits that they were.

  Sam Hathaway – he was a lovely man. She remembered him, so much loved and admired in his parish; kind, helpful, a tower of strength and so devoted to his sparkling little wife. Bonnie sighed and frowned. She’d tried to offer help, soothing herbal balms, tisanes, visits, but Sam turned icy on her and she had slunk away. When she saw him walk into the drawing-room of Tadema Lodge her heart had leaped up, making her gasp with pleasure, but although good manners had made him speak kindly to her, she could sense a closed door. Sam Hathaway’s pleasant face was impassive whenever he spoke to her and his impeccably polite withdrawal felt worse than a spoken rejection. Harriet was much the same. Bonnie had caught the other woman giving her a comprehensive once-over and knew that whatever the test, she had failed.

  Until, that was, she and Harriet had shared those extraordinary moments of intimacy.

  *

  Who is doing these things? Exhausted though she was, Linzi Bray found sleep impossible. Her leg was hideously painful and when she changed the dressing the damage looked disgusting. She was too frightened to turn out the light and in her imagination she pictured all the unnerving incidents as a parade across the wall of her room: the stalker, wherever she went; the silent calls at random moments, day and night; the terrifying blankness of the empty letters, so much more sinister than words.

  The news, too. She was haunted by the death of the French girl. ‘That could have been me.’ She shivered and closed her eyes. ‘I can’t think about that,’ she whimpered aloud. Shock had made her blank out the incident at the riverside too, but tonight at the pub when the brief text taunted her, it all flooded back, worse, far worse. Her stomach had roiled and she had thrown up her entire dinner.

  ‘He – somebody – knows where I live,’ she shuddered, biting her thumb till it bled. The deliberate scratch on her car proved that, and someone had definitely been in the house. The memory made her shrink into herself. Last night she had headed home in panic, abandoning the reception at the Great Hall, but five minutes into the journey she had changed her mind. Yanking at the wheel of the Porsche she turned back to the motorway, looking for anonymity in some pub or other but after one drink she’d forced herself to trail homeward.

  The house was still – not a breath; not a sound – and she relaxed a little as she hurried upstairs. It was in the bathroom she’d first noticed something amiss: bath oil moved to the washbasin when she always kept it by the bath; shampoo slightly out of place, not a lot but enough for her to notice. She was tidy by nature and anything not in the correct place always grated on her. Her eyes raked the room and saw the bath towels folded in squares, not rectangles; the bath mat hung neatly on the radiator not on the side of the bath; the box of tissues on the window sill, not the shelf.

  With her heart thumping so loudly and so painfully that she had to stop and take a breath she had tiptoed into her bedroom and trembled with relief to find it empty. But here, too, things had been disarranged: her ivory silk nightdress neatly folded but under the wrong pillow; jewellery all present and correct but laid out on the dressing table rather than in a drawer.

  Oh God, even the memory was making her queasy –and then dread hit her once more. Is it me all along? Am I doing this to myself? Fiona was kind but Linzi knew the other woman had doubts, wondering whether it was all a tissue of lies.

  Is it all a lie? Linzi was in an agony of indecision. The suspicion – the terror – that she was losing her mind was torment. Another horror struck her. That French girl, the one who died, did she fall or did someone …? Suppose, just suppose there isn’t a stalker at all, that there’s nobody else, only me. Suppose I’m the one doing all these things?

  Bile rose in her throat and she gulped, feeling it burn until she managed to hold herself together. ‘I won’t think about that, I can’t think about it.’

  ‘What else, though?’ Ideas scurried about in her brain: ‘This house … this room … someone in this room?’ Surely she was as safe here as anywhere, in this solid bastion of Edwardian respectability? She swung her feet off the bed and stumbled as her sore leg hit the floor. She felt her way along the wall, stopping now and then to take a deep, shuddering breath. Everything looked all right, tissues in the right place, reading-glasses where she had left them on the bedside table, her book … the book was gone! It should have been next to the glasses so she could read herself to sleep but where…?

  The book was in the wardrobe. There was no way she had left it there, but had Eve Paget been in there? Was this some kind of joke?

  ‘Pull yourself together, Linzi, for goodness’ sake.’ Her voice quavered as she spoke aloud. Eve was a professional and whatever ancient grudge she might harbour she would never, ever, jeopardise her business. Linzi took a deep breath, trying to reassure herself that this was not of her doing, that whatever was going on was by another’s hand. If so she had an inkling of whose hand that might be. She turned to go back to bed – and froze. Tucked into an alcove stood a small Queen Anne-style chest of drawers and on it a small looking-glass, shaped like a shield, on a swing stand. It had been turned to face the wall.

  Her mind, clouded by all the alcohol, suddenly cleared as she reached out a shaking hand and turned the elegant little mirror to its rightful position.

  Something red and liquid had run down the glass. Not blood … she could smell acetone. It was nail polish … but she never wore that garish scarlet. It had dried, leaving a scatter of drips on the polished mahogany chest. A narrow china box lay there, a pretty trifle, decorated with pink roses, a toothbrush-box perhaps.

  Linzi’s breathing sounded harsh in the silent room as she whimpered: ‘Don’t let me be mad.’ As she lifted the lid she froze, staring at the contents. Her own razor lay there, the plastic safety cover missing and the blade smeared red.

  Chapter 5

  Disturbed by a strange noise somewhere in the house, Harriet, who was half-awake, nipped first into the bathroom, then caught up her cotton kimono and slipped outside to see what was up. There was silence, apart from the creaks and groans that came naturally to a century-old building, but she hesitated, even as she turned to go back to bed.

  ‘I’ll just take a look,’ she murmured to herself. The first-floor landing was illuminated by a dim light. Nothing there so she leaned over the handsome mahogany railing. And gasped.

  Sprawled down the short, shallow flight of stairs that led to the entrance hall, sh
e could see the crumpled body of a woman. A woman with a tangle of reddish curls.

  *

  By four in the morning Seren had given up on sleep. It was no good, the burning questions in her head refused to go away. Coffee might help.

  The art group had seemed a good idea, a way to meet people, maybe make a friend or two, perhaps even to hear of a house for sale before it went on the market. These things happened if you were in the know.

  For a moment she yearned for her husband to talk it through with her. ‘It’s up to me, now,’ she whispered aloud.

  Seren had warmed to Fiona Christie when she phoned to ask about the group and was delighted when Fiona invited her round for a coffee.

  ‘I saw the news about the Roman ruins,’ she’d told her hostess, ‘and all the excitement in Locksley in the summer, so I drove there to have a look, just being nosy. I’d already exchanged on our old house and when I fell for the village on the spot I investigated a ‘To Let’ sign, and decided to move here, so I can take my time house-hunting.’

  ‘I must have been crazy,’ she shivered as she finished her coffee, ‘but when I saw that photo of her with the art group and heard she’d be here this weekend, it blew my mind. I thought I could handle it, but that was before she arrived.’

  The likeness was striking. Seren was confident she had rallied and spoken perfectly rationally when Fiona introduced her to the group’s Chairman, not that their conversation had been extensive. Linzi shook hands, enquired politely after the house-hunting, and that was it. If she was aware that Seren was staring, unable to drag her gaze away from that glowing face with the perfect bone-structure and the large brown eyes, it was probably nothing new. Such a striking woman was sure to be an object of scrutiny wherever she went.