A harvest murder, p.14
A Harvest Murder, page 14
‘I know you’re itching to help,’ Adam said, ‘but we need to respect Dan’s wishes. If he wanted us to know the story, he’d have told us.’
Pierre’s brow furrowed. ‘We can’t just sit by and do nothing.’
‘Certainly not,’ Adam said. ‘I’m not suggesting that. We do what we can. Pierre, how long are you staying?’
‘I was planning to leave in a couple of weeks, but my next assignment won’t begin for another month. I was thinking of travelling around the UK, but that can wait.’
‘In that case, you keep an eye on him and look out for any funny business at the studio. Meanwhile…’ Adam fell silent, thinking hard.
Steph said, ‘We need to know more about Fay. Her family, and so on. I suppose you don’t have details like those?’ She looked to Pierre.
‘Sorry, I don’t know much about her at all.’ He shrugged. ‘You know Dad. All he told me was that she was an Australian who’d come to England, liked it and stayed, becoming a teacher. Nothing about Dad’s feelings for her, of course.’
Steph rolled her eyes. ‘Like a clam. Just like Imogen. They’re the perfect pair.’
‘They won’t be,’ Adam pointed out, ‘unless we help Dan get over this tragedy. It’s clear it haunts him. Although,’ he shot a stern look at Pierre, ‘you must understand that any facts we uncover may not help Dan. You’ve only heard his side of the story and it’s all a bit sketchy. He may not be the innocent victim we’re supposing. Finding the truth will mean the real truth, not one we choose.’
‘But we’ll try,’ Steph insisted. ‘Adam always fears the worst. Take no notice, Pierre. Remember, I’ve known Dan longer than you, Adam, and I trust him completely. Whatever happened to Fay, I know it wasn’t his fault. But, if we don’t help, he’ll give up on Imogen, thinking he’s some kind of toxic influence on women. And that will break her heart, no matter how she tries to pretend she doesn’t care.’
Noises from the bar alerted Adam. ‘The lunchtime rush is about to take off.’
‘In that case,’ Steph said, ‘it’s time to eat. My tummy’s been rumbling for the last half-hour and I’m meeting Rose in the bar. She’s coming in to see you, Adam. You’d forgotten, hadn’t you?’
Adam, brick red, blustered a little. This would be the first time he met Steph’s daughter, who was currently staying in Steph’s Camilton cottage, busily applying for jobs in publishing. He’d been excited and nervous in equal measure, but Pierre’s visit had pushed it right out of his head. ‘Also, my old mate, James, and his wife are coming, too. They’re moving into the area.’
Steph said, ‘And James is a forensic pathologist and all-round useful bloke. Maybe he can help.’
Adam had an idea. ‘Pierre, maybe James can help us track down the details of Fay’s death. He has a web of contacts all over the country. Stay and eat with us. He loves a mystery almost as much as Steph does, although his wife’s not so keen. She thinks they’re coming to the countryside because James is taking early retirement. She says she’s heard enough about gruesome death to last for the rest of her life and she’s planning quiet daily walks on Ham Hill.’
‘In that case,’ Pierre observed, ‘Lower Hembrow might not be the best place for them to live.’
27
ROSE
Pierre’s eyes were out on stalks as Steph’s daughter joined them. A student in her second year of university, Rose was a slightly taller, but otherwise easily recognisable, replica of her mother.
James Barton and his wife arrived at the same time.
‘Moving day in three weeks,’ James said, as Adam set a pint of Hook Norton bitter in front of him.
‘And we haven’t even started packing up the house,’ his wife added.
James took a long drink. ‘That’s grand,’ he said. ‘And, by the way, we were right about the poison angle for your Joe Trevillian’s death. There were traces of Amanitin, the toxin found in Death Cap mushrooms, in Joe’s body.’
Adam nodded slowly. ‘Autumn’s the time for fungus. But Joe’s a countryman. He wouldn’t pick one by mistake, even if the Death Cap’s difficult to recognise.’
‘Which it is,’ James agreed.
Adam’s face was screwed into the frown that meant he was thinking. ‘It’s almost certain, then, that someone slipped it to him. And so the mystery is, how? It must have been before Joe showed up, apparently drunk, at the Apple Day because he wasn’t there long enough to drink anything. No one else died – although there were a few sore heads the next day, I remember.’ He nodded towards the ever-present group of young farmers.
James lowered his voice, a great effort for a man with a resonant bass-baritone. In a kind of stage whisper, he said, ‘Joe could have been poisoned at any time up to a couple of weeks before his death.’
Steph nodded. ‘He was already behaving oddly when he arrived. We all put it down to his being drunk, but thinking back, he could already have been feeling the effects of whatever that poison is. How does it work?’
‘It killed him by destroying his liver,’ James explained. ‘He would have been sick and had diarrhoea when he had a first dose, but that could have improved. He probably thought it was a stomach upset and when he felt better, assumed it was all over, but all the time, his liver was deteriorating.’
‘Which means,’ Adam groaned, ‘anyone he met in the last few weeks could have poisoned him, if not with a steak and mushroom dinner, with crumbs in his food or drink. But no one knows where he went when he left The Plough on the night he disappeared,’ he added, thinking back. ‘He said he was going home – but he didn’t arrive.’
He went on, ‘Joe came here for a drink, grumbling about his wife and mother-in-law. He calmed down, left and disappeared. That was the last anyone saw of him until Apple Day.’
‘You know,’ Steph said slowly, ‘we’ve all heard the gossip about Joe being pally with Maria. He might have visited her when he left.’
‘Good point,’ Adam agreed. ‘Which means a visit to Maria is on the cards. And, James, there’s another thing.’
He glanced around, checking he couldn’t be overheard.
Just then, Terry came across. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he said to Rose and Pierre.
‘Well…’ Rose hesitated.
Steph said, ‘Go on. Enjoy yourself. You don’t want to sit with us old folks. We just need Pierre briefly for some – er – local business.’
‘I’ll be over in a minute,’ Pierre said to Rose. ‘Save me a seat?’
James said, ‘Now, what else can I do for you with my amazing sleuthing skills.’
His wife laughed. ‘You mean, by asking a buddy,’
‘Exactly’
‘Do you know every pathologist in the country?’ Steph asked.
‘Just about. It’s a small world.’
‘And, I know you like a challenge.’ Briefly, Adam explained that they were looking into a death that happened years ago. ‘So, while I get more drinks in, I’ll leave Pierre to fill you in on the details.’
Next day, James phoned Adam, sounding delighted with himself. ‘Mission accomplished,’ he said. ‘I phoned the pathologist who dealt with the crash in London, and what he told me was most interesting. Apparently, the woman in question had at least twice the legal driving level of alcohol in her body. So, no wonder she crashed.’
Adam nodded. That confirmed Pierre’s account.
James went on, ‘And there was no evidence of anyone else being involved. She hadn’t been wearing a seat belt, so when the car hit a concrete pillar sideways, she was flung half over the back seat. She finished up lying in the gap between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. The police did a forensic sweep of the car, and there were plenty of fingermarks, but they all matched people she knew well; Dan, her family, a bunch of her friends and a few old boyfriends that the police interviewed. They all had watertight alibis. One of the girlfriends had been out with her that morning, shopping, but no one else except Dan had seen her since lunchtime.’
‘So,’ Adam said, ‘was Dan investigated?’
‘He was, but there was no evidence against him.’
Adam was thoughtful. ‘Pierre says he blamed himself for her death, but that’s natural, as they’d quarrelled. If the police thought Dan had a motive, they’d have looked more closely at him, but if there’s no evidence, they can’t do anything.’
James agreed. ‘The case, my mate tells me, is still open, but no one’s working on it. It’s gone cold.’
28
EXHIBITION
The exhibition at the Camilton Gallery was due to continue as planned. Henry, the gallery owner, had refused to cancel. ‘Only one painting damaged,’ he’d said, ‘and the rest are fine. It’s almost a lucky break, in fact. We’ll get the insurance money – that includes you, of course, Dan. Your contract’s watertight – and the publicity will be worth its weight in gold.’ Every inch of his well-fed, corpulent body quivered with glee and he rubbed pudgy hands together. ‘That was a great spread in the Camilton Gazette, especially with your son’s photos of the remaining works. Brilliant idea, that.’
‘I suppose you didn’t set it all up?’ Dan had suggested, with a smile. Henry was always on the lookout for a profit, but far too canny a businessman to risk getting on the wrong side of the law.
‘I almost wish I had, but the police went over my movements with a fine-tooth comb. I think they wanted to lock me up and throw away the key. But I showed them my email to you and, luckily for me, that proved you came on the wrong date. It’s a good job you’re a cotton-wool-brained artist.’
Dan had defended himself. ‘If I hadn’t shown up the burglar could have broken into the storeroom and we might have lost the lot. Was there anything more from the police? They haven’t told me much, as it happened on your premises.’
Henry had shrugged. ‘They’re getting nowhere – they’ve too many other fish to fry with this murder in Lower Hembrow.’ He’d pursed his lips. ‘I suppose the two aren’t connected?’
‘I don’t see how.’ Should he have mentioned Smash’s disappearance and the threatening note? But neither of those things were linked to Joe’s murder. Dan hardly even knew the man. The police weren’t going to put precious resources into chasing someone unknown whose tricks hadn’t even reached stalker level. Burglaries and mild damage to property were hardly priorities in these days of county-line drug-smuggling.
Henry had moved on. ‘At least we know the burglar alarm works. Our visitor triggered it when he broke a window at the side of the building and climbed through. You wouldn’t have seen it from the car park and the back door. The police are convinced it was a one-man job, as there was so little damage.’
‘Just many wasted hours of work on the painting.’ Dan had clicked his tongue. ‘It wasn’t one of the best, fortunately. Strictly commercial, to entice more owners of expensive buildings to commission house-portraits.’
‘These will make you a fortune,’ Henry had said. ‘Rich people love to buy paintings that glorify their lifestyles. They’ll be beating a path to your door.’
Dan’s trusty alarm system woke him early on the day of the exhibition.
‘Pierre,’ he yelled. ‘Get out of bed. We need to get to Camilton. I want to make sure Henry’s assistant hasn’t rehung any of the pictures in the wrong place. I know he was dying to move the Haselbury House canvases into the big room and I don’t want that faux-Georgian pile with its pretend Palladian pillars taking centre stage.’
Pierre grinned. ‘Don’t panic. The paintings of The Streamside Hotel will be front and centre – you made your feelings about that pretty clear to Henry.’
‘It’s a fine building,’ Dan was short, but he knew Pierre was right.
They climbed into the old white van, a couple of lesser paintings in the back. ‘In case,’ Pierre said, ‘the others all sell out – which they will – and you need replacements.’
After they’d inspected every aspect of the exhibition and Henry had insisted they’d find a space for the paintings Dan called, ‘my second-rate reserves’, Dan relaxed. At lunch, Henry toasted Dan with champagne. ‘I’m only in this business so I can drink with the clients,’ he said, his round face beaming with anticipation. ‘Everyone we invited is coming, so it’s going to be a great event.’
Dan wandered through the gallery, his heart in his mouth, suddenly beset by terrible foreboding. How could anyone want these mechanical, unlovely daubs? What if no one came, or the critics hated the paintings, or – and this was the part that made his breath stop in his chest – what if Imogen came and thought they were rubbish? Dan would know, from her face. She was hopeless at hiding her feelings.
Still, there was nothing more he could do. It was time for the gallery doors to open.
Adam was first to arrive. He strolled among the paintings, hands clasped behind his back, nodding, saying hardly a word. Dan followed him. His nerves were twitching, for Adam knew enough to tell good work from bad.
Finally, he approached Dan and held out his hand. ‘These are amazing. You’ve brought your subjects alive.’
To Dan’s relief, a steady stream of visitors soon followed, and the level of excitement rose as the free champagne flowed. A pleasing number of ‘sold’ red dots appeared on the paintings.
Pierre was thrilled. ‘I’m basking in the glow of being your son,’ he confessed, ‘but I don’t much like the look of this character.’
He nodded towards Roger Masters, the owner of Haselbury House, who was approaching fast.
Rose tapped his shoulder and Pierre’s eyes lit up. ‘Right, Dad,’ he grinned. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Well, well, not bad at all.’ It was too late for Dan to avoid Masters. ‘Very impressive show,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘I can’t afford the painting of Haselbury myself, of course – but maybe it’ll go to a good home. The administrators are selling the place, you know, contents and all.’ He grunted, angrily. ‘For half what it’s worth. And most of that will go to creditors. But then, times are hard, aren’t they?’ Dan felt a perverse pleasure. Imogen had told him the man had been a pest when she’d worked with him. At least he’d never get his hands on Dan’s painting.
Surreptitiously, Dan sketched the faces of the visitors, enjoying the contrast between the regular art-gallery set and his friends from Lower Hembrow.
But Imogen wasn’t there. Had she chickened out? Or maybe she just wasn’t interested.
The earliest visitors had left, and fewer than half the canvases remained unsold, when she finally arrived. Forgetting, just for a moment, that they were estranged, Dan hurried towards her. ‘Imogen? Thank you for coming.’ He caught his breath at the warmth of her smile. She glowed with happiness. Was he forgiven?
‘You’re the artist?’ A smartly dressed man appeared at Imogen’s side and Dan’s heart sank. This stranger, annoyingly handsome, was the cause of Imogen’s good mood, then. ‘Imogen tells me you’re famous,’ the fellow said.
Imogen, blushing, introduced Brian. The two men shook hands. Brian gripped Dan’s hand in one of those strength contests Dan thought belonged in the boardroom, not in an art gallery.
‘Can’t stay long,’ Brian said. ‘We just came to see The Streamside Hotel pictures. I’m working with Imogen on redeveloping the outbuildings there.’
‘I’d heard,’ Dan said coolly.
‘Brian’s running the project on the old folly, for me.’ Imogen’s voice wobbled. ‘We’re just about to start work on the foundations.’
Dan forced himself to be polite. ‘You’ll be leaving the façade as it is, I hope?’
Brian waved a hand vaguely at Imogen. ‘This lady has perfect taste. She won’t let anything good be destroyed. But, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll whisk round, and I’ll be off. Places to go, you know. Adam Hennessy’s giving Imogen a lift home.’ He turned and squeezed Imogen’s arm in a warm, proprietorial gesture. Dan longed to land a punch on his self-satisfied face.
Imogen blushed. ‘I want to see everything,’ she said.
Resolutely refusing more champagne, Dan spent the next hour talking politely to prospective purchasers, wishing the whole business would end so he could go home. These events took so much energy – more than the painting itself. He’d love to get back to his studio, put his feet up, pour a glass of wine, if Pierre hadn’t drunk it all, and think about his next steps. He’d be glad never to see the likes of Roger Masters again.
He felt a touch on his shoulder. ‘Imogen?’
Her eyes glowed. ‘It’s wonderful. Everyone’s loving your work and, what’s more, they’re buying it. I’m so pleased for you.’
For a moment, she was the old Imogen and Dan’s heart set up a hopeful drum beat. He never should have let her go. What a fool he’d been. Maybe it wasn’t too late to try again, after all?
‘Has your friend left?’ he asked, politely.
‘Brian? Yes, he’s gone up to London to see an aging parent. He’s very kind to his mother.’ The warmth in her voice brought Dan’s hopes crashing down. This Brian was clearly more than just a contractor.
Sick at heart, Dan turned away to sweet-talk a buyer.
The guests left, at last. Pierre took Rose off to dinner in town and Adam ushered Imogen out of the gallery.
‘Terrific exhibition,’ Adam said. ‘Coming to The Plough to celebrate?’
As Dan hesitated, his phone rang.
‘Mr Freeman?’ The voice sounded heavily official. ‘Detective Constable Stanley here. I’m afraid there’s a problem at your studio. Can you get home?’
Dan’s heart lurched.
‘Problem? What do you mean?’ He held his breath.
‘A fire, sir. I’m afraid there’s some damage.’
‘The donkeys?’ Dan blurted out.
‘Donkeys, sir? The ones in the field, you mean?’
‘Yes. Two donkeys.’
‘Nothing wrong with the – er – donkeys,’ DC Stanley spoke slowly and clearly. ‘But the building – well, I’m afraid it’s been rather badly damaged, sir. You’d better come over, straight away.’
