A Stab in the Dark Read online

  A herd of cows in the field on the other side of the fence gazed curiously at her. Her throat felt hot and tight. She wrenched off the scarf around her neck, but the throttled sensation remained. Clenching a fist, she banged the steering wheel, and a brown-and-white cow lumbered away, flicking its long, thin tail at her as if in disgust.

  Breathe, she told herself. Sucking in a deep breath, she made a conscious effort to relax her shoulders. She couldn’t arrive at Missenden Hall all riled up by Cherise’s speculations. There might be some truth in what she’d said, however unpalatable. After a few minutes of deep breathing, the red mist in her brain gradually subsided. She was once more in control.

  She restarted the engine, backed out of the laneway, and continued her journey to Missenden Hall at a more sedate speed.

  At her destination, she draped the scarf around her neck, tidied her hair, and straightened the cuffs of her blouse. As she stepped out of her car, she belatedly became aware of another vehicle parked nearby, an older model grey Ford Mondeo. She’d seen it before, she felt sure, and not in a good context. She was soon reminded when Hetty opened the front door of the hall and ushered her inside.

  “It’s that Inspector Clegg,” the housekeeper said, the corners of her mouth turning down in disapproval. “And the other one.”

  The knot in Araminta’s stomach tightened once again. This wasn’t going to be an easy visit. Shoulders back, she walked into the drawing room. The first thing she noticed was the silhouette of a man standing with his back to the mullioned windows through which sunlight streamed, making the man seem darker, larger, and more threatening. He raised a hand.

  “Araminta. Glad you could join us.” The harsh voice of DCI Clegg was gratingly familiar.

  Lord Winthrop sat in the faded red high back armchair he always favoured, while Lady Winthrop occupied the settee facing the fireplace. In her lavender twinset with tweed skirt and pearls, snow-white hair immaculate, back straight, legs tucked together to one side, she looked quintessentially upper crust. She raised her tired, deep-set eyes to Araminta and gave her the faintest of smiles.

  “Hello, darling. Won’t you take a seat? DCI Clegg and DC Kumar are just going over yesterday’s incident.”

  She made it sound as if they were discussing a fracas at the church bazaar instead of a violent death. Araminta exchanged a brief glance with Paul Kumar, who was standing discreetly by the fireplace, notepad in hand, his face giving nothing away. She sank into the armchair opposite her uncle’s.

  “So.” DCI Clegg returned his focus to Lady Winthrop. “You’ve no idea what the deceased was doing in your secret staircase?”

  “None whatsoever.” Lady Winthrop’s face was a composed mask. “And we’ve never concealed the fact that the staircase exists, so I don’t consider it a secret staircase.”

  A muscle twitched in the folds of DCI Clegg’s face. “But it’s not part of your tour.” His heavy gaze flicked briefly in Araminta’s direction. “So you could say the general public aren’t aware of its existence. In fact, you could say it is a secret staircase.”

  Lady Winthrop paused and made the slightest shrug. “I suppose, if you want to be pedantic.”

  A faint flush rose in DCI Clegg’s cheeks. “I do want to be pedantic, if it’s all the same with you, Mrs Winthrop.”

  Lady Winthrop visibly stiffened at the chief inspector’s sardonic tone. A retort leaped to Araminta’s lips, but she bit it back.

  Lord Winthrop heaved himself to his feet. “Now look here.” His eyebrows bristled at DCI Clegg. “I won’t have you badgering my wife. Do you hear? Instead of wasting our time asking us irrelevant, impertinent questions, you should be out there looking for the real culprit.” He jabbed a finger at the window.

  His hand wasn’t too steady, Araminta observed. Another night of drinking? She hoped not.

  DCI Clegg smirked. “Well, isn’t that a shame. But it’s up to me what questions I ask, and I’ll thank the both of you to answer them, even if I am keeping you away from your tea-tippling or your bridge or whatever else you find more important than assisting the police.”

  Lord Winthrop puffed out his cheeks. “This is intolerable. I’ve never met with such—such incivility.” He spluttered for a few seconds, his face mottled, his hair in disarray. His hands wandered over his jacket as if they had a mind of their own.

  Araminta had never seen him like this before. Where was the reserved, remote uncle she’d known all her life? The man who took pride in containing emotion, a fundamental trait of being a Winthrop, he’d often maintained. This fractured, incoherent man seemed more afraid than indignant.

  She glanced at her aunt, hoping she’d intervene, but Lady Winthrop was staring at her husband as if she didn’t recognise him. After a second, she gave herself a shake and switched her gaze to DCI Clegg.

  “Chief Inspector, my husband and I are merely anxious that you track down the culprit. The staircase is known to many of our regular visitors, and I daresay many of the villagers would be aware of its existence, even if they’ve never actually seen it. So, to answer your original question, any number of people would have known about the staircase.”

  Lady Winthrop met his glare with equanimity. It was obvious DCI Clegg didn’t appreciate her answer. The chief inspector scowled at the Winthrops, including Araminta in his displeasure, then, with a curt jerk of his head at DS Kumar, he headed for the door, throwing over his shoulder, “I’ll be back later to continue my questioning.”

  The two detectives departed. In their wake, a thorny silence settled over the drawing room. But far from being relieved, Araminta felt only growing anxiety. The silence was unnerving. Her aunt and uncle remained frozen in their positions, like a still-life tableau, each sunk in their own thoughts.

  Then, without another word Lady Winthrop got up from the settee and walked out, her narrow shoulders rigid. Lord Winthrop frowned after her, the lines around his mouth deeply scored.

  “Uncle George.” Araminta jumped to her feet.

  Lord Winthrop blinked at her, as if he’d forgotten her presence. “Mm?” he answered distractedly.

  “I, er, I wonder if I could ask you something.”

  He rummaged through the pockets of his ancient tweed jacket and pulled out a small silver hip flask. “Don’t tell your aunt,” he said hoarsely before downing a quick gulp. “Just a tiny nip. To steady the nerves.”

  Araminta pressed her lips together.

  “I know, I know,” he muttered, returning the flask to his left pocket. “Reprehensible. But it’s the first of the day, and considering the circumstances...” He pulled a large white handkerchief from the other pocket and mopped his mouth. “Now. What was your question?”

  He did seem better for the drink. She wished she didn’t have to interrogate him, but there was no way she could ignore what Cherise had told her in the café.

  “It’s about the man who died. Joel Taylor. Are you sure you’d never met him before?”

  Her uncle, who’d been folding his handkerchief, paused. His frown deepened. “And why are you asking me that?”

  “I... heard something,” Araminta said. She wasn’t afraid of controversy, but this was her Uncle George; she’d never confronted him before. “I heard Joel Taylor had visited the Hall prior to yesterday, that he’d spoken with you or Aunt Edwina about...about a sensitive matter.”

  Lord Winthrop smothered a cough. “Outrageous” he bit out, squeezing his handkerchief.

  “So, it’s not true?”

  He grew stiff and still, his icy blue eyes boring into her. “Araminta, I’m disappointed in you. I thought you knew better than to indulge in idle gossip, especially in the circumstances.”

  His criticism, so rarely directed at her, stung. “I wasn’t gossiping.”

  He made a cutting gesture with his hand. “You’re not to repeat such scurrilous nonsense to your aunt. It’s the last thing she needs now. Do I make myself clear?”

  His curt tone brooked no argument. “Yes, Uncle Geor
ge.” With difficulty she stopped herself from lowering her head like a chastened child.

  Visibly relaxing, he stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. “Righto. That’s all settled then. I’m going out, if anyone asks.”

  Araminta watched her uncle leave the room. He hadn’t quelled her doubts; if anything his evasion had only increased them. Alone in the chilly drawing room, she rubbed her upper arms trying in vain to suppress the questions nagging at her.

  Was Cherise telling the truth? Had Joel Taylor already visited Missenden Hall before the day of his death? Uncle George had dismissed it as idle gossip, but he hadn’t directly denied it. What was he not telling her?

  One way or another, she had to find out.

  9. Argy Bargy

  ARAMINTA LEFT THE DRAWING room, then paused outside to look around her. Further down the black-and-white chequered hallway was the library, its double doors shut, no sign of the violence that had spilled within. Only yesterday this grand house had opened its arms to the public, inviting them in. Now, it felt almost hostile, the quietness thick and impenetrable.

  Turning in the opposite direction, she headed for the kitchen, intent on speaking with Hetty. As she strode down the hall, she thought she heard a faint sniff. Pausing, she detected the sound again coming from the nearby bathroom, its door slightly ajar.

  “Hello?” Araminta stepped towards the bathroom. “Is anyone in there?”

  After a few seconds, the door creaked open, and a sliver of a face peered out. “It’s just me,” Isla said.

  “Oh, Isla. You look...peaky.” The secretary’s eyes were red and swollen, her nose dripping. Her black hair had come loose from its hairclips and hung lankly over her eyes, while her beige cardigan drooped from her shoulders, making her look like a bedraggled bird.

  “I’m sorry.” The woman swiped a wodge of toilet paper across her cheeks. “It’s just my stomach playing up...”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Araminta said. “It’s been a stressful time for everyone.”

  “Yes.” Nodding, Isla sucked in a breath. “It’s so horrible. If only there was something I could do.”

  “Did you see or hear anything when you were with my aunt yesterday? Between two and three o’clock?”

  Isla pondered a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure? It’s possible you might’ve heard something which at the time you thought was nothing, but could have been Joel prowling around upstairs.”

  “Prowling?”

  “He might’ve discovered the hidden staircase earlier while on the tour, then doubled back later and gone upstairs, hoping to find some valuables lying around.”

  “Valuables?” The secretary’s red-rimmed eyes widened. “Oh, but that’s...”

  “He could even have come to Missenden Hall before yesterday, maybe a few weeks ago.”

  Isla shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “I want to get to the bottom of this, you see,” Araminta explained, seeing the secretary’s bewilderment. “I fear there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

  Isla moistened her dry lips and readjusted her hairclips. “Well, actually...”

  “Yes?”

  “Now that I think about it, I do remember something. About yesterday.”

  “Really?” This was a surprise. “What is it?”

  “The gardener. I saw him arguing with someone.”

  “With whom?”

  “I don’t know. I—I was in her ladyship’s office when I heard a man shouting from outside. I looked out the window and saw the gardener—his name’s Ollie Saunders—down below, yelling at someone. The corner of the house blocked my view, so I couldn’t see who he was arguing with.”

  “Could you hear what he was saying?”

  “Oh, not really. Sorry. I just remember his expression. He looked furious. It only lasted a few moments, before he stomped away.”

  Araminta tugged at the hem of her silk shirt blouse, wondering what to make of this unexpected information. Was this the same argument she’d witnessed between the gardener and McVeigh? She thought not. That altercation had happened out in the open, not near the house.

  “You only remembered this right now? It could be important. You might want to tell DCI Clegg.”

  The secretary shrank back, wringing her ball of damp toilet paper. “Good golly, not him! He petrifies me.”

  “Well, then go to DS Kumar.”

  Isla pursed her lips. “On second thoughts, I’m sure it was nothing. The gardener is ornery with everyone.”

  Araminta frowned. “Well, it’s up to you.”

  “It’s probably nothing. I’m sorry I mentioned it at all. I should just mind my own business, like always.” The secretary hugged the cardigan closer to her rail-thin body. “Must get back to my work,” she said before scurrying off, her soft-soled shoes making barely a whisper against the black-and-white tiles.

  IN THE KITCHEN, HETTY was peering into the innards of the ancient refrigerator, muttering to herself under her breath. At Araminta’s approach, the housekeeper glanced over her shoulder, then straightened up, her forehead creased with concern.

  “Six litres of fresh cream!” She stepped back, allowing the refrigerator door to slam shut. “What am I going to do with all that now we don’t have any visitors to the tearoom? Not to mention the three dozen sausage rolls in the freezer. There’s no space for anything else!”

  “Maybe we’ll re-open soon,” Araminta said without much conviction.

  “Oh? Did the police say we could?”

  “Not exactly, but it looks like they’ve finished their forensic work in the library. It can’t be much longer.” But would Uncle George and Aunt Edwina want to open their doors to the public again? She wasn’t at all sure.

  The housekeeper rested her hands on her stout hips. “That DCI Clegg,” she snorted. “Got a chip on his shoulder the size of Big Ben. Needs to tear down others to make himself feel okay. Never did like him.”

  She scooped up a tray containing used cups and bowls and ferried them to a stained sink that hulked in the corner.

  “Barely touched their breakfasts, your aunt and uncle,” the housekeeper continued as she cranked open the taps. “Once I clean this up, I’ll make a plate of sandwiches for them. Beef and mustard, that’s his lordship’s favourite. And cheese and watercress for her ladyship. They need something to keep their strength up.”

  “My uncle’s gone out. He didn’t say when he was coming back.”

  “I don’t blame him for wanting to get away.” Hetty heaved a sigh. “It’s a crying shame, what’s happened. People have no respect these days.”

  Not sure how to interpret the remark, Araminta opted to change the subject. “I wanted to ask you about Cherise.”

  “Oh?” The housekeeper plunged her arms into the sink of sudsy water and began to wash the dishes. “What about her? I haven’t spoken to the lass since I sent her home yesterday, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Do you think she’s reliable? An honest sort of person?”

  Hetty rinsed off a milk jug and placed it in the drying rack. “Well, she wouldn’t steal anything, if that’s what you mean. I wouldn’t have hired her for the tearoom in the first place if I thought she’d be nicking the teaspoons or any of that malarkey. No, Cherise isn’t the thieving type.” She soaped the plates for a few moments before continuing, “But as for telling porkies, well, I wouldn’t put it past her to exaggerate now and again. She’s not altogether there, if you know what I mean. Nice enough lass, but she doesn’t have too many friends, I think because she’s a bit on the flaky side. Likes to fantasise, build things up more than they actually are. Is that what you’re wanting to know?”

  “Mm, I think so.” Araminta picked up a leftover biscuit from a plate on the table and bit into it. If Cherise was ‘flaky’—and she had been beside herself this morning—then maybe her story about Joel Taylor pestering the Winthrops and threatening to reveal some mysterious so
rdid secret, might be an exaggeration, a misunderstanding, or even a complete fabrication.

  “Got a crazy streak to her, if you ask me,” Hetty mused.

  “What kind of crazy?”

  Hetty’s brow creased as she rinsed a handful of cutlery. “She had a bit of an argy-bargy with Ollie the other day. Here in the kitchen. I was just walking in when I heard her scream at him. Then she grabbed the pepper grinder from the table and chucked it at him. Luckily for the both of them, she’s got butterfingers and the grinder was just a cheap plastic thing. It landed on the floor.”

  Araminta stared at the housekeeper. “Cherise was arguing with Ollie?” This was the second time today she’d heard about the gardener quarrelling with someone. “Does he row with everyone?”

  “Oh, he’s a cranky one, that Ollie Saunders. Hasn’t been with us for very long, maybe two or three months. Rumour has it he used to run his own business, looking after people’s gardens, but then something happened, and he had to shut down. You’d think he’d be grateful finding work here, but he’s forever going around with a long face and grouching at everyone. Lord knows what he said to Cherise, but it set her off. My word, it did. I’ve never seen her so beside herself. It’s a good thing it wasn’t a knife she snatched up or there might’ve been blood all over—”

  The housekeeper broke off, her expression altering. “Erm, don’t take me too seriously. I didn’t mean anything by that...” She wiped her damp, reddened hands on her apron, her eyebrows puckered up. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s having them police and their big boots clunking through the Hall that’s made my mouth run away from me. Pay no attention to what I said. It’s just the stress getting to me. You do understand, don’t you, Miss Araminta?”

  Araminta wiped a biscuit crumb from the corner of her mouth. “I understand, Hetty, but you’ve given me food for thought. Perhaps I could play devil’s advocate for a moment.”

  Hetty sucked in a breath. “Now why on earth would you be the devil’s anything!”

  “No-no, it’s just an expression. I’m not taking what you said seriously, but let’s just speculate for a moment. Did Cherise have the opportunity to...” Araminta was about to say “knife Joel Taylor in the chest” but quickly changed it to, “do the deed? I assume she had the chance, since she was back and forth between the main house and the tearoom, am I right?”