Murder Among Us Read online

  Outside in the gathering gloom and engine coughed and died. Zoe froze, listening. Rob's motorcycle? She glanced apprehensively around her. She wasn't exactly afraid of Robin but recalling his expression after she had struck him and also on the occasion he had attacked Schuhmacher with the fork, her confidence in being able to deal with Harding was severely shaken.

  She had been feeling nervous lately. In the daytime things were all right but when night fell, it was different. This sense of being less secure probably dated from Ellen's death. It had increased since Emma and Maud's adventure in the pine plantation. Moreover, something Chief Inspector Markby had said had also made things worse. Poor man, he hadn't meant to alarm her. But when he'd asked if she were ever afraid out here and did she keep a dog, it had set her thinking about her situation in a way she hadn't done before. The animals had always filled her thoughts, and their welfare. She had never had the time to worry about herself. But now Schuhmacher's offer of a new site with cottage appeared more and more desirable and more and more an unreal-isable dream.

  But she had definitely heard an engine quite near at hand. Not Rob's bike though, different-sounding. Zoe hesitated and then went to the door and opened it. She peered out into the twilight. It was a little misty. Swirls of fog curled across the ground and a gauzy haze hung over the treetops. Was she imagining it or did a figure move by the corner of the barn?

  Suddenly Zoe realised that with the dull glow of the oil lamp behind her she was silhouetted in the doorway

  making a perfect target. She gave a gasp and pulled the door shut.

  It was stupid but her hand was shaking. She sat down and tried to pull herself together.

  Crack!

  Zoe's head jerked round. That was no sound to be explained by a falling twig or some loose object bowled along the ground by the wind.

  Tap—tap—tap.

  The blood in her veins curdled. Footsteps—and coming nearer. Hesitant steps which stopped and then began again.

  A dislodged stone rattled away just outside the door. There was a scraping and scuffling at the fabric of the trailer and then a knock so loud that she almost jumped out of her skin. It was repeated more urgently. A female voice called. "Miss Foster? Are you in there?"

  She had no idea who it was but it was neither Rob nor Schuhmacher nor some ill-intentioned vagrant such as Emma had disturbed in the pinewoods. It was company and as such, it was welcome. Zoe grabbed the oil lamp and holding it high, jerked open the door.

  Margery Collins' white face and pointed features leapt into the flickering circle of light, eerily illuminated. She was still wearing black or another dark colour and in the gloom and swirling mist only her face and hands could be distinguished. They were fish-belly ivory and appeared to hover detached from her body so that she resembled some macabre disjointed marionette. Zoe stared at her with instinctive revulsion.

  "Miss Foster?" Margery repeated. "Can I come in?"

  "What? Oh yes, of course." Zoe ushered her in and offered her a seat. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't expecting a visitor."

  Not quite true. She'd half been expecting an unwelcome one. She asked, "How did you come?"

  'Tn my little car, my runabout. Well, it was Ellen's, you remember it. But now it's mine. I parked in the lane. It was quite difficult to find my way across your yard.

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  The fog is closing in and obscuring the moon and stupidly, I didn't bring a torch/'

  "You didn't—" Zoe felt foolish asking it but had to check. "You didn't see a motorcycle on your way here?"

  "I don't think so." Margery sounded puzzled.

  "That's all right, then. Would you like some coffee? I'll just light my little calor gas-stove. It will give out a bit of heat, too."

  "I'm disturbing you," Margery apologised. "I would have rung but you haven't a phone. It's just that I've made up my mind about something and I wanted to tell you straight away." She fell silent, offering no explanation of this mysterious statement.

  Zoe, nonplussed but prepared to let Margery get to the point of her visit in her own way, fetched mugs and put the little tin kettle on the gas bottle's ring. "You didn't disturb me. I was just doing the books."

  "Oh, the books ..." Margery glanced at the papers scattered across the bunk seat. A shadow crossed her face. Then she blinked as if she'd just woken up. "No, please don't put coffee in that mug for me. I don't drink it. If you've got any fruit squash I'll have that, with hot water if you like. I quite like it that way and I don't drink stimulants."

  Zoe fetched a bottle of orange squash and obliged.

  Margery asked her, "Where do you get fresh water?"

  "From the standpipe out in the yard. It fills the horse-trough and I draw off my water. I suppose it's not really meant to be used for humans but I always boil it and I've never been sick. Do you still want this drink?"

  "Oh yes, I don't mind. I'm sure it will be all right." Margery twisted her thin hands and fell silent again.

  Zoe's patience at last gave way to lively curiosity. She ventured a blunt, "What can I do for you, Margery?"

  "It's about Ellen's money."

  Zoe, mug half raised to her lips, stared. "I'm sorry?"

  "Ellen's money. You've heard, I expect, that Ellen left everything to me. The shop, her car, her clothes, her

  furniture and her money. She was quite well off."

  44 Yes, I did hear." Zoe hoped she didn't sound envious.

  "It was a great shock. I mean, Ellen's death itself was a shock but then when Mrs Danby told me I was her heiress, it was worse. I felt so guilty."

  4 'Why?" asked Zoe, surprised.

  4 'Because I didn't deserve it. I wasn't a relative. I wasn't really a friend. I just worked at Needles. I've hardly slept since I knew about it." Apparently at a complete tangent she added, 4 Tm staying at The Crossed Keys. It was Chief Inspector Markby's idea."

  Zoe began to wonder whether a combination of shocks had slightly unhinged Margery and if she really was quite right in the head.

  44 Is it true, do you know, that they've arrested someone at the hotel?" Margery's next question seemed to confirm Zoe's suspicions.

  44 I don't know, I haven't heard. But then I wouldn't, out here. At the hotel? Are you sure? Who told you?"

  4 'Someone came into the shop and said so. Perhaps it's just a rumour. But I hope they have arrested him. I've been so scared he'd come after me."

  "Why on earth should anyone bother you?" The words burst from Zoe's lips in complete incredulity before she realised how rude they must sound.

  44 Yes, me. I can't tell you why. But ever since I inherited all of Ellen's belongings it seems nothing has gone right. Although I want to keep the shop going. But in every other way it's been a miserable time." Margery's voice grew louder and more vehement. Her pale face flushed. "Even the shop, for that to be mine poor Ellen had to die first and so horribly! And I've become deceitful, keeping things from Mr Markby, and vain, dreaming of wearing Ellen's clothes as if I'd look anything but ridiculous in her things! It's all wrong and I want to put it right. I'll keep the shop because I know how Ellen would have wanted it run. But not the money. I can't keep the money."

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  She straightened her back and pushed her dark hair from her eyes. "I've wondered and wondered what to do. Then I heard about the little girl taking the donkey and her dreadful ordeal in the woods. It seemed somehow to be giving me the answer, as if it had happened just for that reason, to show me what to do." Margery leaned forward earnestly. "I want you, I want the horses, to have the money.''

  "Oh no../' Zoe whispered. She shook her head. "It's kind, Margery, and of course we're always broke. But I couldn't. Ellen wanted you to have it."

  "I don't believe," Margery said firmly, "that Ellen had really thought about it at all. How could she? She wouldn't have left it all to me if she had. What should I do with so much money? No, it's right that the Home should have it. You do need it, don't you?" Margery indicated the po
verty-stricken surroundings with an innocent cruelty.

  "Yes," said Zoe.

  "Then I'll tell Mrs. Danby in the morning. She can do all the necessary legal business. Of course, I'll keep back a certain amount to cover buying new stock and so on for the shop. But Mrs Danby can help us sort that out."

  Zoe nodded. With an effort she managed to say, "I can't think how to thank you, Margery. It—it seems unreal. Too good to be true."

  "You don't have to thank me. I want to do what's right and this is right." Margery got up. "I'd better be going before the fog gets any thicker."

  "I'll walk with you to your car and bring my torch!" Zoe offered.

  The mist outside had thickened, swirling about them and reaching out to touch their faces with clammy fingers.

  "Take care!" advised Zoe anxiously as Margery prepared to drive away.

  But as she walked back to her trailer she suddenly felt so elated that she hardly noticed the fog or the dark or

  remembered her earlier fears at all. From nowhere, literally out of the dark and mist, had come salvation. She felt as if she floated across the ground, borne up by her happiness. In the caravan again, she picked up the papers on which she had so painfully calculated their debts and threw them up into the air. She wanted to celebrate but had no way of doing so other than to sit and joyfully imagine all the things they could do now with the money.

  She was so elated that she quite failed to hear, shortly after Margery's departure and muffled by the fog, the stuttering roar of a motorcycle engine start up in the lane.

  Twenty-Two

  Meredith had also witnessed the thickening mist slowly descend over the landscape from early evening onward. Now, at a little after ten p.m., she stood at a window in the lounge of Springwood Hall and peered out between the heavy drapes.

  She was alone in the long narrow room with its high ceiling and dusky nooks. The main lights had been switched off and only two table lamps and the glow from the embers in the hearth bathed the room in a subdued rosy haze. Two couples of fellow guests who had shared the lounge earlier had long bid her goodnight and retired. One elderly man had remarked that he was glad he hadn't to be out and about on the roads that night.

  There was a rustle from the grate as the skeletal remains of the logs which earlier had crackled so hospitably now fell in upon one another with tiny showers of golden sparks. The air was warm and heavy. A clock ticked softly. It was as if time stood still at the Hall. It might have been 1890 or 1909 or 1990, it made no difference. Perhaps she wasn't alone, but watched from the shadows by the ghosts of former occupants, curious but not unfriendly.

  Outside, in startling and sinister contrast to the comfort within, everything was blanketed in a chill, wet, grey-white mass. The fog besieged the house, swirling malevolently at the windowpanes as it sought some chink through which it might seep. The row of Victorian-style lamps which illuminated the main drive and should have been visible from here could only be located by fuzzy yellowish smudges in the murk. Trees and

  shrubs were invisible. Meredith shivered and turned away, letting the velvet curtain fall back into place.

  Although she was tired she was unwilling to go up to bed. She returned to her seat by the fire, picked up a copy of a countryside magazine and sat with it unopened in her lap, staring down at the flickering remains of the fire. A sudden spurt of flame sprang up and almost immediately died.

  If the household spirits did still hover over the place. she thought drowsily, they had plenty of scandal to amuse them! It had been as exhausting a day as any since murder had first come among them. .After Dems and Alan Markby had left Leah had descended on a telephone and spent the whole afternoon furiously contacting influential personages of all descriptions. She had joined Meredith at dinner, but only to fulminate, over congealing food, against the British police, the system of justice and Chief Inspector Markby in particular, promising retribution once her solicitor got on to it.

  Trying not to tuck into her own meal too obviously and thus appear unsympathetic, Meredith had listened patiently. She had defended Markby as best she could whenever she was able to get a word in edgeways. But she could not feel she had defended him well. How could she, when she didn't know what he was up to? she thought now a little crossly.

  Thinking it over in the quiet warm gloom, it seemed incredible that Denis Fulton, of all men, should have been requested to "help the police with their inquiries." Denis, for pity's sake? But still waters run deep and Denis, it now seemed, had a colourful past.

  Where, wondered Meredith idly, had he known the late Mrs. Bryant and in what circumstances 0 And what had been the nature of his recent communication with her? No use asking .Alan who certainly knew but wouldn't tell. Leah. too. was presumably in ignorance since Denis had been hauled away making vague promises of future explanations. No wonder Leah was upset. Not knowing the full truth and being left to speculate

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  wildly was far harder to bear than any complete knowledge, however shocking.

  As if by thinking about Leah Meredith had somehow established a telepathic contact with her, there was a click from the door which opened to admit the lady herself.

  "Hullo!" said Meredith surprised. "I thought you'd gone to bed. Everyone else has."

  Leah smiled mirthlessly. "Perhaps they can look forward to pleasant dreams! Mind if I join you?" She took the seat opposite Meredith and gazed down at the crumbling ashes with some dissatisfaction.

  "Hang on!" said Meredith. She got up and fetched one of the smaller pieces of wood from a basket by the hearth and pushed it into the flames. After a moment it caught, crackling and sending up a little Mount Etna of sparks. Meredith prudently pulled the mesh fireguard across. "There, that's better. I'm sure they won't mind us burning another log and it's quite safe."

  "You see, you're practical," said Leah moodily. "You're a useful person. I mean that as a compliment."

  1 Thanks, but it does make me sound a bit of a workhorse."

  "Don't scorn it. It's better than being a useless ornament like me!" The speaker's voice was unexpectedly bitter.

  "Come on," said Meredith gently. "You're just feeling down in the dumps because you're worried about Denis. You must be tired. You ought to go to bed, really. Take an aspirin. I've got some if you haven't. Sleep and stop thinking."

  "I've got pills, thanks. But I don't want to stop thinking. I want to work it all out and get it straight in my mind!" Leah sighed. "I don't know why Denis didn't confide in me that he had troubles. I really don't understand it. Why did he feel he couldn't tell me? Am I an ogre?'' She raised dark-ringed eyes in her pale beautiful face, fixing Meredith with a questioning and embarrassingly direct gaze.

  "No. I don't know what's wrong but I am sure he loves you. I expect he wanted to protect you."

  Leah's clenched fists beat on the arms of her chair. "I don't want protecting! I'm not a bit of Dresden china! I'm not stupid, incapable of understanding! But that's what people think when they see me, isn't it? Just another rich bitch, thick as two planks. A clothes' horse, drenched in French perfume, tricked out with expensive gems, incapable of earning a living or standing on her own two feet. Always kept by a rich man. Someone whose status is midway between a decorative statuette and a pet pug!"

  Meredith couldn't help laughing. "That's rubbish!" At the same time she couldn't help recognising the element of truth in what Leah said. Of course no one expected anything of her. And, yes, one did notice the clothes, the jewellery, the perfume. Meredith could smell it now. It was a shame: Leah was an intelligent woman. She'd never really given herself a chance.

  "It isn't rubbish, it's true!" said Leah calmly. "You know it is. I can see it in your face. No, don't argue. I don't mind. I've never made the slightest effort to achieve anything in my own right. I was Bernie's wife, Marcus's wife, now Denis's. That's it. Someone's wife."

  "I'm not laughing at you, only at the words you used." Meredith hesitated. "Being a successful wife is an
achievement too. I don't know I could fulfil that role."

  "You haven't tried. Marry your policeman and then you'll find out, not before. As for me, I'm not a successful wife to Denis or he wouldn't have felt he needed to keep secrets. He was afraid to tell me, that's it. I'm not proud of myself."

  "Look," Meredith began. "We don't yet know why Alan wants to talk to Denis at the station. It may all be cleared up by tomorrow morning."

  "Cleared up or not," said Leah with sudden vigour, "Denis will be out of police clutches! Our solicitor is

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  coming down first thing in the morning. He wasn't free to come this afternoon, he had to be in court, and with fog and poor driving conditions forecast for tonight, he thought it best to leave it till tomorrow. But he'll be here and get Denis released well before the time when, as I understand it, they'll have to let him go anyway if they can't show good reason for holding him! The solicitor is quite sure there will be no problem and he's a good man, a friend of Marcus's. He won't let us down."

  Marcus. Dead but not forgotten. Poor old Denis, married to Marcus's wife, spending Marcus's money and living in Marcus's house, now to be sprung by Marcus's lawyer. Meredith commiserated with Fulton even though she did find him a rather irritating man.

  "Leah," she asked, feeling a little ashamed of herself. "What was Marcus Keller like?"

  "Marcus? A good man, very successful, tough in business but honest. Devoted husband. Generous to a fault, spoiled me. Never wanted me to be anything but a doll. Perhaps if we'd had children. . . but we didn't. My daughter, Lizzie, is Bernie's child. Bernie was my first husband and is still around, remarried with more children from his present union. All I've got is Denis. I don't want to lose him."

  "You've got your daughter," Meredith pointed out.

  Leah shrugged eloquently. "She doesn't need me. In more ways than one she's Bernie's daughter! Bernie was always utterly self-sufficient. If he could have managed to have babies by himself he'd never have bothered to marry me! He wanted a son, of course, and I couldn't give him that. We parted amicably enough. I left him free to try again for a son with someone else. He was correspondingly generous in our divorce settlement."