‘Well, it was pretty obvious to everyone else. She got engaged to that other sponger, Millant, pretty soon after.’

  Amanda stiffened for a second, then relaxed again. ‘He was quite a catch. For Bunty. It’s true he wasn’t well off.’ Her expression became pensive. ‘Kit wasn’t a sponger in those days. He had plenty of money.’ ‘That’s true,’ put in Ware, who was drifting about the room with his hands in his pockets. ‘After all, we sent you over to your aunt for the London season to catch a rich husband . . .’

  ‘To meet suitable young men of the right class and breeding,’ snapped his wife.

  ‘Amounts to the same thing. You fell in love with Kit. Your mother found him highly acceptable. His class and breeding were impeccable. So was his bank balance at the time. Or so he said.’

  ‘I had some reservations,’ said Mrs Ware defensively.

  ‘I don’t recall them, my dear. Except you were sore he didn’t have a title.’

  ‘Mummy’s reservations wouldn’t have made the least difference. I was crazy about him.’ Amanda made a face at herself in the mirror, then began applying eyeshadow. ‘Pity he didn’t marry Bunty.’

  ‘Maybe she was still aiming to be the fourth Mrs Jarvas.’ This was her father. ‘She didn’t know he was coming to the wedding?’

  ‘I don’t know how she could. We didn’t, after all,’ said Amanda. ‘Jonas seems to have known, of course.’ She blinked several times at her reflection.

  ‘But if Bunty was setting her cap at him? With his dying like that . . .’

  ‘Would have been pretty upsetting,’ Ware interrupted his wife. ‘Can’t see it would have driven her to take her life though.’

  Amanda paused in what she was doing to her face. ‘I wonder? She did seem pleased to see Kit last night. Bit shy, perhaps. You don’t think . . . ? Not after all those years, surely?’

  ‘And the shock,’ mused her father.

  ‘She was drunk, of course,’ said Mrs Ware firmly. ‘When we all went to bed, somebody had to carry the tea she took to her room.’

  ‘Fact is, I didn’t see much possibility of breakfast at the manor,’ said Noah Plimpton. He had come into the dining room at the Orchard a moment earlier.

  ‘You know, my wife and I predicted exactly that as far back as lunchtime yesterday?’ Treasure remarked, looking up from The Times. He was so far the only hotel guest in the room. ‘Please join me. Molly doesn’t take breakfast, so there’s a free one going.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked the other, sitting down immediately. ‘Bacon and eggs, please.’ He beamed at the waitress who had appeared to take his order. ‘Oh, and sausage . . . and tomatoes . . . and mushrooms, please,’ he added, now reading from the menu which he had noticed just in time. ‘Two eggs, if that’s all right?’ came after another look at the card. Then he turned it over in case there was anything on the back.

  ‘To avoid fainting from lack of nourishment till that arrives, there’s grapefruit, juices and assorted cereals on the table over there,’ Treasure remarked lightly. ‘Kippers are extra, but I’ll stand you one if you want.’

  ‘It’s the country air,’ Noah announced as he returned a minute later laden with a perilously balanced and more than representative selection of everything on offer. He adjusted his spectacles and wrinkled his forehead several times while arranging this collection in a considered order for consumption. ‘Mind you, I’m pretty hungry in town as well,’ he admitted. ‘Very decent of you, sir. One could have foraged for oneself in the manor kitchen, I suppose, but there’s a limit to the bounds of hospitality.’ So saying, he drained his second glass of orange juice before applying himself to half a grapefruit.

  ‘The young women down there weren’t coming to the aid of the party?’

  ‘Fleur’s disappeared. I doubt if the Bedwell twins know how to boil water. Anyway, one was having a slow bath and the other was having . . .’ He paused, frowned, then changed the subject. ‘Actually, it just seemed a bit unfeeling to be doing anything so frivolous as making breakfast. I mean with poor Mrs Millant being carted away and policemen and doctors all over the place looking grave.’ He squinted at the ingredients listed on the single-helping pack of Bran Buds, compared these with the equivalent entry on the pack of Cornflakes, emptied the contents of both packs into a plate and glanced about for the milk and sugar. ‘Suppose one will now have to consider heading for home.’

  Treasure sensed the last thought fathered another — a consideration of whether the consumables to hand would provide adequate sustenance against the journey and whatever privations could be expected to follow. ‘You came by car?’

  ‘Got a lift from London with Jonas. Don’t run to four wheels. Not yet.’

  ‘Motor bike?’ Treasure dipped into his single boiled egg. ‘Bicycle, actually.’

  ‘Marvellous exercise.’

  ‘Is it? Yes, I suppose so.’ He nodded seriously at the banker as though the information carried special weight coming from a Rolls-Royce owner. ‘You see I’m not quite qualified. As a solicitor. I’ve done my articles and . . . er, taken the exams.’

  ‘So what’s left?’

  ‘I didn’t pass,’ Noah announced flatly, then cleared his throat of Bran Buds residual. ‘Not the finals. Took them again in July. Won’t have the results till November. So I’m on an articled clerk’s salary still. It’s why I don’t have a car, I expect.’ He seemed uncertain. ‘And why I never asked Fleur to marry me.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? Good.’ He helped himself to a piece of toast pending the arrival of the cooked victuals. ‘Jonas didn’t let her money come between them, of course,’ he added, ruminating.

  ‘One got the impression he was effectively spurning her fortune. That he has excellent prospects,’ Treasure offered carefully.

  ‘Very bad, I’d have thought,’ Noah replied. The waitress, who had just returned, seemed about to protest. ‘Not the eggs. They look fine,’ he assured her warmly. The girl departed. ‘Great romancer, Jonas.’

  ‘You mean he’s not being promoted . . .’

  ‘To Hong Kong, you mean? Moved sideways. Thought everybody knew. It was that or be made redundant. Company’s cutting back here. He’s some kind of data processor. Whatever that means. Middle-weight computer wallah. Chap who works with him told me.’ He finished chewing a piece of sausage. ‘Mark you, he’s a fixer. Wheeler-dealer. Trouble is, fixers need power bases. I think Jonas lacks a power base.’

  ‘He’s not an especial friend of yours?’

  ‘Hardly know him. Nothing against him, but now he and Fleur have broken up I shan’t be seeing much of him.’

  ‘After he’s driven you back to town?’

  ‘Oh, he won’t be doing that. It was Fleur’s car. Jonas just borrowed it. Expect he’ll leave with Alexi Bedwell. They seem quite . . . quite chummy.’

  ‘Well, if you’re fond of Fleur . . .’ The stern advice just about to be offered was stemmed by the arrival of Tim Shannon who had hurried across to the table.

  ‘Mr Treasure, could you possibly come to the phone? It’s old Mr Grimandi. Silvano Grimandi. He won’t talk to anyone but you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Treasure pushed back his chair and dropped his napkin on to the table. ‘Is he calling from his room? Perhaps he’s ill.’ ‘Actually he’s calling from the Monmouth Police Station. Seems he’s been detained there. Most of the night.’ He glanced from Treasure to Noah. ‘I suppose there can be no mistake. He’s not in his room. The police say he’s wearing two suits. The emphasis on the last word was coloured with incredulity.

  ‘Then there’s no mistake,’ said the banker, striding out of the dining room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘The duty inspector offered to ring you at two this morning, but Mr Grimandi here wouldn’t hear of it, apparently.’ The detective sergeant smiled benignly across the table of the interview room at the police station in Glendower Street, Monmouth. He was a heavy man, approaching middle age, with a face like a ripe peach. ‘So he’s been our guest here.’

  Silvano was seated beside Treasure on the other side of the table. Noah, who had accompanied the banker on the fast drive down, was doing his best to look judicial at the top end. Mr R. Jones, Garden Machinery, Sales & Maintenance, was alongside the sergeant, a little awed but, in the main, enjoying the proceedings.

  ‘Who wants he should get out of bed at that time? Better everybody sleep comfortable till morning,’ Silvano reasoned unselfishly.

  ‘But you slept in a cell?’

  ‘Mr Treasure, they don’t lock the door. That’s different. Is very nice. Is a civilised country. Like America.’ He ended with a patriotic afterthought.

  ‘It wouldn’t have been unlocked if we hadn’t apprehended those two villains. They hadn’t got very far. Trying to thumb a lift to Newport. They stopped a police car.’ The sergeant shook his head over the ineptitude of the criminal classes. ‘Very much the worse for wear they are still. And thick with it. They’re in locked cells,’ he finished pointedly, for fear the others might conclude there was no end to the soft heartedness of the Gwent County Constabulary.

  Treasure said, ‘So you opened the van door and threw one out over your shoulder?’

  ‘He had my case open. The van was stopped. The driver, he was getting out anyway.’ Silvano shrugged. ‘I help him a little also.’ ‘Tipped him head first into an old quarry, where I expect they meant to push Mr Grimandi,’ put in the sergeant. ‘Then he jumps into the driving seat and leaves ’em to their fate. Fantastic. He should be on the Force. This morning, before you got here, he’s been demonstrating that throw. From a sitting position. Incredible. You know he was a Black Belt?’

  ‘First Dan only. Means first grade. Is a long time ago. Many chiropractors learn karate.’

  ‘At first, we had to detain Mr Grimandi, of course,’ the sergeant put in apologetically. ‘Exceeding the speed limit on the A40 at one-fifteen this morning. Driving a van he didn’t own, full of goods he couldn’t identify. All stolen incidentally, as we now know. He insisted he was just looking for Mr Jones. Oh, and that he knew nothing about the death of Mr Jarvas. That was the gentleman who died in the accident at Much Marton. We didn’t know that at the time either. And Mr Grimandi seemed to be wearing two of everything. Our patrolmen found that very suspicious.’ He turned to Noah. ‘You’re a lawyer, sir, what else could we have done except detain for questioning?’

  ‘Quite,’ answered Noah, sounding fully qualified and deeply anxious not to say anything that could possibly jeopardise the client’s rights.

  ‘Bob Jones here turned out quick enough. Confirmed he had Mr Grimandi’s hired car, like he’d said. But the inspector needed more corroboration and identification. Couldn’t get that without disturbing you, sir, or Mr Figgle. You do understand, Mr . . . Plimpton?’ The policeman checked the last name from his notebook.

  ‘Quite,’ repeated Noah guardedly, moving his glasses about with near abandon and frowning at everyone in turn to confirm he had considered all the alternatives. ‘But Mr Grimandi is, of course, free to leave. At will.’ The confident tone suggested dire consequences for any who might now dare to challenge this fairly shaky premise.

  The sergeant beamed. ‘Perfectly free, sir, sorry as we are to lose him. My uniformed colleagues are overlooking the speeding offence. Letting him off with a warning.’ A look of gentle admonition went in Noah’s direction for forgetting the point, before the speaker turned to Silvano. ‘If you could just sign your statement, sir. The typed copy should be ready.’

  ‘Just one thing.’ This was Treasure. ‘There was a burglary at Marton Manor last evening.’

  ‘We got the notification, including the list of what was nicked.’ The sergeant glanced at Silvano. ‘At first we thought Mr Grimandi might have been involved. Natural enough. Then, of course, the two real villains. But there was nothing in the van that’s on that list. We’ll be cross-checking fingerprints, naturally.’ The sergeant paused. ‘The Marton Manor job sounds like it was done by experts. Knew what they were after. The two jokers we’ve got here wouldn’t know a Botticelli from a bus ticket.’

  ‘Glad you’ve decided to stay on, Silvano,’ said the banker a few minutes later, as he headed the Rolls towards Much Marton. Noah had gone with Mr Jones to collect the hire car and drive it back.

  ‘Maybe it’s better.’ The reply was enigmatic. The speaker, despite his bulk and the two suits, seemed to have shrunk a little. He was holding himself very straight and had tightly buckled his seat belt.

  ‘There’s to be a lunch for disappointed wedding guests. You’ll enjoy that. Tell me, whatever made you rush off like that in the first place? You mentioned Jarvas to the police? Did his death bother you in some special way?’

  ‘Was accident, huh?’

  ‘They think so, yes. He was killed by a golf ball. They’ve had a post mortem.’

  ‘A golf ball hit by a golf club? Is possible to hit so hard?’

  ‘Yes. But in my opinion none of the shots that were supposed to have done it were really hit hard enough. And that’s not just because Molly and I hit a dozen of them. You have anything else in mind?’

  ‘Mr Jarvas. He was not a very nice man.’ The words came out as a statement, not a question.

  ‘By some standards a perfectly obnoxious man.’ ‘You think anyone would want to kill him?’

  ‘Wanting to do something, to kill someone, is a lot different from actually doing it.’ Treasure gunned the accelerator so that the big car charged past a labouring lorry on a straight and clear uphill stretch of road. ‘Even if the intention is there, you need opportunity. Like overtaking on narrow roads.’ He reduced speed slightly. ‘To answer your question, in the course of a pretty scandalous life, I think it probable Kitson Jarvas recruited whole armies of people ready to bump him off. You think someone did?’

  ‘And killing him. It could be . . . justified?’

  ‘Possibly before God, but definitely not before a British High Court. Did you kill him, Silvano?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well at least you’ve answered a direct question at last.’ ‘You believe me?’

  ‘Sure. But if you weren’t trying to flee the country for doing a murder . . .’

  ‘How you know . . . ?’

  ‘That you were on your way to the airport? From the drift of this conversation there’s nothing else you could have been doing. Especially in all those clothes. So if you haven’t done a murder, did you witness one? Did you actually see the Vicar do it?’

  ‘The Vicar did it! No, certainly no?’

  ‘Well, we seem to have established you saw someone. Or was it something? I’ve got your toupee, by the way. Were you leaning out the window when it fell off?’

  ‘Kind of. Thank you.’ Silvano blew his nose loudly. ‘What I’m seeing. Is only suspect. How do you say, the circostanze?’

  ‘Your evidence is circumstantial?’

  ‘That’s right. And could be like a red snapper.’

  ‘Herring. Just a different fish. You mean you’re not sure?’ ‘So if it was . . . how you say . . . coincidenza?’ ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘Si. If it was coincidence, I make trouble only. For nothing. Maybe for innocent people.’

  ‘That’s if you tell the police.’ ‘Not the police.’

  ‘How about telling me?’

  ‘This is what I am thinking last night. In the cell. Is better to make confidence with someone you trust, but important, honourable man like you. Or else go home and have to live with the conscience if . . .’

  ‘If it turns out not to have been an accident. Someone gets accused of murder. And you know he’s innocent. Or you know someone else did it.’

  Silvano visibly relaxed. ‘We can have such a confidence? You and me?’

  ‘For the reason these people are friends of mine. I don’t relish having them investigated by the police. Not if we can head off the need for official enquiries before they start. But we shall need to be absolutely frank. You understand frank?’

  ‘He’s one of the friends?’

  ‘No. Not a person. Frank means open. We’ve got to tell each other everything.’

  ‘Like I said. OK.’

  ‘So, could Mrs Millant have killed Jarvas?’

  ‘Mrs Millant! Is a game you play? First the priest. Then . . .’

  ‘I gather you don’t suspect Mrs Millant? That’s a pity in a way. She killed herself this morning. Overdose of sleeping pills.’

  ‘I’m sorry. She seemed troubled. But it’s a shock, huh?’ He made the sign of the cross over his bulging lapels. ‘Would be convenient if it was her, yes? I understand.’

  ‘So why don’t you tell me who you do suspect?’ ‘Is what I saw when I’m in the torretta.’

  Treasure frowned. ‘You mean the turret? The one at the hotel?’ ‘Yes. Is a room at the top. I go there after we come back from dinner.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To take photographs. Is a good view. Better than my room.

  I plan to make pictures of the wedding. Candid pictures. Also before and after the wedding.’ He saw Treasure’s frown. ‘Nice pictures, but when people not . . . posing. You understand?’

  ‘I think so. Good idea.’

  ‘So, I have the special camera for night pictures. Very expensive camera. No flash. Natural pictures.’

  ‘You were taking pictures of the dancing on the terrace?’

  ‘Is right. Only from there . . . from the torretta, the turret, is a good view of the ground below the terrace.’

  ‘The slope down to the green? The ninth green. Where you were with Molly earlier?’

  ‘And Mr Ware. Playing golf. From the . . . turret you don’t see the whole green. The left part you don’t see.’

  ‘That’s where Jarvas’s body was found.’

 

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