A Stab in the Dark Page 6

  But Paul had grieved, too. And he hadn’t been here in Ian’s house in a long while. No wonder he’d choked up at the memories.

  Paul cleared his throat. “Sorry about that.”

  Sensing he didn’t want her to say anything further, she poured two cups of tea and brought them to the table. Paul dunked two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his and stirred vigorously.

  Araminta took a seat opposite him. “How are Sujata and the children?”

  “All well.” He relaxed enough to smile. “The youngest starts school in September, and Sujata is looking forward to going back at work.”

  “Good.” Araminta sipped her tea. “So what’s happening with the murder investigation?”

  Paul set down his cup. “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing case with you.”

  “That’s never stopped you in the past.”

  “Yes, but...” He hesitated. “This is different. The murder took place inside your aunt and uncle’s house.”

  “All the more reason why I need to know what’s going on. Surely you don’t suspect Aunt Edwina or Uncle George?”

  “You also know we can’t rule out anyone.”

  “What possible motive would they have for murdering a virtual stranger? And at such a time. Opening their house to the public has put a horrible strain on them as it is. Why on earth would they invite more publicity, and such gruesome publicity, too?”

  Paul shifted in his chair, ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “No one is above the law.”

  “Hmm.” Araminta leaned back and crossed her legs. “Now you’re sounding like your governor.”

  He flushed briefly. “Clegg’s not my governor.”

  “Sidney Clegg has a chip on his shoulder about people like my aunt and uncle—and me—and he makes no bones about it.”

  “Well, okay, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be prejudiced or unfair in the investigation.”

  “Let’s hope not. So, what about me? I did discover the body, after all. Does that make me a suspect as well?”

  Paul sighed, rubbed a face over his tired face. “You spoke to Joel Taylor, didn’t you? Did he seem worried in any way or indicate he might have an enemy?”

  “Nothing, sorry. He just talked about the house and how much he liked it. He seemed very relaxed, oozing with confidence.” Now that she thought about it, Joel hadn’t endeared himself to her; his self-confidence had bordered on conceit. “Was he married? Did he have any children?”

  “No. Single, no offspring. His mother passed away about six months ago in Dorchester. No siblings or other close relatives.” Paul drained his cup before standing. “Well, I should be off. I’m late as it is, and there’s a lot to do.”

  “I can imagine how busy you’ll be today. Post-mortem, forensics, interviews. Will you be wanting statements from me or my aunt and uncle?”

  “In due course.” She walked with him out of the kitchen. “I’m sorry this happened so close to home, Araminta.”

  “It’s not your fault, so there’s no need to apologise.”

  He paused at the front door. “Look, I’m not promising anything, but I’ll try to keep you in the loop where I can.”

  She blinked at him. “Won’t that get you into trouble with Clegg?”

  “Only if he finds out.”

  Araminta chuckled. “I appreciate that.” As he walked away, she added, “Oh, and Paul, thanks for stopping by. Don’t be a stranger anymore.”

  He lifted a hand in acknowledgement and left.

  7. Casting Nasturtiums

  AN HOUR LATER ARAMINTA drove her vintage Jaguar E-Type coupe to Cranley and parked in a laneway near the green. She could easily have walked to the village, but as she was on her way to Missenden Hall, she’d decided to stop at Good Nosh to pick up a few things for her aunt. The food emporium and café operated out of an old corner building that was all odd angles and sloping walls. A large picture window showed off an artful display—the one Garrick had been working on yesterday, she guessed. There were wicker baskets filled with baguettes, legs of ham, and bottles of elderflower cordial, a veritable summer bounty.

  A group of women stood by the window, chattering among themselves. As Araminta approached, several of them nudged each other, and the conversation died down. Araminta had been expecting something like this; village life meant everyone knew everyone else’s business, and a grisly murder would have sent the gossip mills into overdrive.

  “Morning, ladies,” she said breezily. “So, I suppose you’ve all heard what happened yesterday at Missenden Hall.”

  Bridy Fisher stepped forward. “I was just telling the ladies all about it. I was there; I spoke with the murder victim—before he was killed, of course. I insisted the sergeant take my statement. I might be a witness at the murder trial. Oh, won’t that be a thing!” She beamed proudly. “Ahem, well, of course it’s just terrible. How awful for your aunt and uncle. I suppose they’re devastated?”

  “They’re bearing up, as they always do,” Araminta replied. Neither her aunt or uncle had called for her help this morning. Not that she expected them to. The Winthrops—and that included her—were not ones to express needy emotions; they preferred to bottle it all up. But Araminta knew her aunt and uncle would appreciate her being there today without them actually saying so.

  “Such a shame,” another woman clucked. “My husband and I were planning to do the tour next week with my mum. She’s always wanted to see inside the Hall. See how the other half lives and all.” She gave a nervous titter. “Don’t suppose she wants to go now, not while there’s a murderer lurking about.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Bridy chided her. “As if the murderer would strike again in the same place.”

  The other woman pinched her lips. “Well, you never know,” she sniffed.

  “Anyway, I must run,” Araminta said, eager to escape their scrutiny.

  She stepped inside Good Nosh, inhaling the scent of freshly baked bread and ground coffee. The shop consisted of two sections, the main one filled with foodstuffs, while the adjacent room housed a small café. Seeing no sign of Garrick, she walked through to the café.

  There, Cherise cut a familiar figure as she listlessly wiped down a table. When she spotted Araminta, she straightened, clutching a cloth to her bosom.

  “Good morning,” Araminta greeted her as she took a seat. Then, noting the deep shadows under the woman’s red-rimmed eyes and her ashy pallor, she added, “Oh, Cherise, you look a little peaky. Are you sure you should be at work today?”

  “I’m fine,” Cherise answered in a thin, reedy voice that completely negated her words. “What can I get you?”

  “A cappuccino, please. But if you’re still upset about what happened yesterday, why don’t you ask Garrick if you can take the rest of the day off?”

  Cherise pressed her lips together. Her chin trembled as tears gathered in her eyes. “I’m not upset!” She rushed away and cowered behind the espresso machine. After a few sniffs she began making coffee with a great deal of noise.

  As steam hissed and machines clanked, Araminta had a brief internal struggle. She didn’t know the woman very well, but Cherise was clearly in distress, and Araminta found it difficult to ignore her suffering. Finally, she rose from the table and walked to the counter.

  “Look, you can tell me to mind my own business if you like, but it’s obvious you’re in a bother. If there’s anything I can do to help, please ask.”

  Head bowed, Cherise continued to froth milk, looking like she hadn’t heard a word. With a small shrug, Araminta retreated to her table. She pulled out her mobile phone to check the latest headlines. Surprisingly, the murder at Missenden Hall wasn’t yet widely reported.

  Footsteps approached her. Then, Cherise set a coffee in front of her, the teaspoon rattling against the cup.

  “Thank you, Cherise,” Araminta said. Some of the coffee had sloshed into the saucer, but she said nothing.

  Cherise tugged at the pink T-shirt that stretched across her ample che
st. Suddenly she collapsed into an adjacent seat and blurted out, “I can’t get my head around it! I can’t!”

  Araminta nodded sympathetically. “Joel Taylor’s death? Yes, it’s come as a shock to all of us.”

  “But he was special to me—” Cherise broke off, wiping a hand across her contorted face. “Me and Joel—well, we were dating, sort of, no, actually we were. And—and now he’s gone, and I just can’t believe it’s true.” Tears welled up in eyes which were already swollen from hours of crying.

  “I’m so sorry.” Araminta slid the cannister of paper serviettes towards the other woman.

  Cherise grabbed a handful and buried her nose in them, snuffling noisily. Eventually she emerged to say haltingly, “He—he was such a lovely man; so cultured and well dressed. A real gentleman, you know.”

  But according to Garrick, Joel had dumped Cherise via text message. What kind of gentleman did that? Araminta kept silent. The woman was grieving, after all. She took a sip of her coffee and managed not to wince at its watery bitterness.

  “So you and Joel had some good times?” Araminta asked, reaching for the sugar.

  ‘We did, when he could get away, of course. I never thought a bloke like him would look twice at a girl like me. But he said I was different. He liked my smile, and I’m not a bad cook neither. I used to cook him dinner quite often. He liked that. He said I was almost as good as Nigella Lawson, can you believe that?” Cherise smiled tremulously. “When he came to dinner at my place it was like a home from home, that’s what he said.”

  “Sounds cosy.”

  “Oh, yes.” A wistful look came over Cherise’s face.

  “And what else did you and Joel get up to? Did you spend a lot of time together?”

  Cherise glanced down at the crumpled serviettes in her hands. “Not as much as I’d’ve liked. Sometimes we’d meet at the pub for a drink. That was nice. But he didn’t have a lot of spare time because of his business. He was ever so smart. He told rich people how to invest their money.”

  “Did he invest some of your money?” Araminta asked, suspicious.

  “I don’t have any. Just the cottage my nan left me. Joel said I should borrow on it and put him in charge of the finances. I was going to, but then...” She trailed off, her face clouding over.

  Araminta nursed her coffee while Cherise twisted the serviettes crumpled in her hands.

  “We—we had an argument over the money. I was having second thoughts, you see. Because of my nan. Never a lender or a borrower be, she used to tell me. Joel lost his rag; said I didn’t trust him. So he broke up with me, but it was just temporary, I’m sure, because if he’d lived, I would’ve got him the money, or maybe—” She broke off, chewing on her lower lip. “Or maybe he really was sick of me.” She drew in a deep breath as if needing to screw up her courage, and blurted out, “You see, he was cheating on me.”

  Araminta set down her cup and gazed at Cherise. “How awful!” The more she learned about Joel Taylor, the more she disliked the dead man. “But...are you sure?”

  Cherise heaved a heavy sigh. “I-I’m positive. One time, Joel was supposed to come to my place for dinner, but he never showed up. I’d made his favourite steak-and-kidney pie, and it was drying up in the oven. So I wrapped the dish in a tea towel and drove to his house over in Farrington. I got a bit lost, seeing as I’d only been there once before. When I finally got there, I saw the lights were on, so I knew he was at home. But as I went to knock on his door, I heard him inside the house. With someone else. A woman, definitely. They were laughing together. You know, that way couples laugh together. He—he asked her if she wanted more wine, and he said ‘don’t move, darling, I’ll get it.’ So—so I just knew there was something going on between them. I turned round and went home.” She choked, pressing a hand to her lips, her freckles standing out against her pale skin.

  Araminta didn’t know how to respond. “I’m so sorry, Cherise.”

  What an utter rat the late Joel Taylor was turning out to be, assuming Cherise wasn’t embellishing the truth.

  “He never shared a bottle of wine with me at his house,” Cherise said mournfully.

  Why was she still pining over the rotter? Araminta couldn’t understand. “Well, to be honest it sounds like you had a lucky escape,” she couldn’t help saying.

  To her surprise, Cherise bristled at this remark. “How would you know?”

  “I’m sorry, but from what you’ve said it sounds like Joel wasn’t a very nice man at times.”

  “But...but—” Cherise gulped and clenched her fists. “How could you? You didn’t know him! You’ve got no right casting nasturtiums on a dead man what can’t defend himself!”

  “Casting nasturtiums...?” Araminta was momentarily bemused. “Oh, you mean aspersions.”

  The other woman’s face reddened. “Go ahead. Laugh at me if you like.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You’re just like her ladyship. Putting on airs and graces. Looking down your nose at people like me!”

  “Now you’re—”

  “Well, it’s not right.” Cherise tossed back her limp hair, her mopish air evaporating. “You Winthrops think you’re so la-di-dah, but you’re not so special, are you?”

  “I never thought we were special.” She had to be charitable, Araminta thought. Cherise wasn’t herself today, or she wouldn’t be saying these things.

  “You put on a good window dressing, but behind it you’ve got muck to hide just like everyone else.”

  “I agree we’re not perfect. We never pretended otherwise.”

  “Didn’t you?” Cherise lifted her chin. “Joel knew about it, though, didn’t he?”

  Araminta frowned at the waitress. “Excuse me? What on earth are you talking about?

  Cherise shrugged. “It’s not for me to say. You posh people all have your family secrets. Skeletons in the closet you don’t want no one to know about.” She heaved herself to her feet and marched back to the counter where she snatched up a cloth and started vigorously wiping the espresso machine.

  Araminta rose to her feet and stalked after her. “Generally I don’t pay attention to tittle tattle, but you leave me no choice,” she said with a coolness that masked her rising ire. “What exactly did Joel know about my family?”

  Cherise blinked and huffed, her indignant air slowly evaporating. “I—I was just blowing off steam. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “On the contrary. You made a specific point that Joel knew something disreputable about my family, my aunt and uncle, I presume.”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve said nothing.” Cherise hunched her shoulders, her eyes darting about.

  “Look, I’m not angry with you. But I do need details. What did Joel tell you?”

  Cherise licked her lips nervously. “Not much. He was very cagey about the whole thing, but I could tell he was excited about it. He said it was something big, something juicy. Something that would make him a somebody. That’s what he said.”

  “You didn’t ask for any details?” Araminta asked, unable to hide her frustration.

  The other woman shook her head. “I didn’t like to make him snippy.” She chewed on her fingernails. “I been wondering. Do you think—I mean, what if...”

  “Yes?” As the waitress continued to hesitate, she added, “Come on, Cherise. Don’t hold back now. Spit it out.”

  “I don’t mean no disrespect, Miss. Everyone respects your uncle and auntie, I’m sure, but what if they didn’t like Joel knowing their secrets? What if that’s what got him killed? Because of what he knew about the Winthrops?”

  8. Chief Inspector Clegg

  THE SOUND OF HER HEART drummed in her ears as Araminta turned and stalked away.

  Cherise didn’t know what she was talking about, she told herself. The woman was hurting because she’d lost her boyfriend. But that was no excuse for throwing out wild theories. How dare she try to implicate the Winthrops? It was intolerable, impossible—

  As
she marched out of the café, Garrick appeared from the window display, holding a wheel of cheese. The initial smile that began to spread across his face dissipated when he caught sight of her expression.

  “Araminta? Something wrong?”

  “No, got to go.” She brushed past him without making eye contact. She exited the shop and was heading for her car when footsteps sounded behind her.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Garrick said, catching up with her.

  Drat the man. She simply couldn’t stop. She had to get away before the precarious lid on her emotions blew off.

  “Don’t you have customers to ignore?” Reaching her coupé, she wrenched open the car door.

  Garrick grabbed the door and blocked her path. “Now, don’t tell me nothing’s wrong,” he said slowly. “Because something clearly is.”

  She glared at him. “Garrick, I’m just not in the mood! Please, just back off!”

  He flinched as if she’d slapped him across the face, making her instantly regret her words. But before she could say anything to lessen the sharpness, he stepped back, gave her an oddly formal salute, then turned on his heel and loped away. Araminta gazed at the back of his Fair Isle jersey with a mixture of remorse and relief. Garrick didn’t deserve the thorny side of her tongue. On the other hand, she couldn’t bear to talk to anyone right now.

  She started her Jaguar, grinded the gears, and took off in a hurry, narrowly avoiding clipping her side mirror against a pole. She flew down the main road of the village, causing several pedestrians to turn and stare. On a street corner Rev Percy clutched at his hat and tut-tutted at her, while a plump woman in tweed suit and brogues clung to the leads of her two yapping terriers.

  Araminta barely noticed them. She raced out of Cranley until she was deep in the countryside, then, as reason returned, she pulled into the first laneway she came across. Belatedly realising how fast she was going, she stamped on the brakes, causing the Jaguar to skid to a halt, its bonnet grazing the rotten boards of a tumbledown stile at the end of the lane.