Birthdays Can Be Murder Page 18

  ‘So you did nothing about it?’ Mollineaux prompted, and Daphne frowned.

  ‘Of course not. Why would I?’

  ‘Mrs Williams, do you think that your son’s accident really was an accident?’ he asked softly, and saw her stiffen in shock.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Daphne said, and then paled as the realization hit her. ‘You think someone killed Jimmy?’ she whispered, aghast.

  ‘In view of what happened the other night, I think it’s a possibility,’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘Do you have any idea who might want either your son or Justin and Alicia Greer dead, Mrs Williams?’

  But Daphne seemed hardly to be listening. Finally she shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, I don’t.’

  Mollineaux glanced at Jenny, who gave a very slight, almost imperceptible shrug. ‘Well, I think that’s all for now, Mrs Williams. We will, of course, keep this conversation strictly confidential,’ he added. But as the housekeeper rose and walked on stiff legs to the door, he doubted whether she understood or appreciated his discretion.

  Once the door closed behind her, the tension eased.

  ‘I believed her,’ Mollern said at last. ‘About thinking her son died accidentally, I mean.’

  Jenny stared at the empty fireplace, thinking furiously. ‘If Jimmy Speight was having tea in the shed,’ she eventually spoke her thoughts out loud, ‘then he’d have had a clear view of the greenhouse.’

  ‘And anyone who’d gone into it to steal some paraquat.’ Mollern, quick as lightning, picked up the thread.

  ‘Which means either a stranger,’ Mollineaux continued. ‘Or someone from the village he knew.’

  ‘Why a stranger?’ Jenny asked, so quietly that it was almost a whisper.

  Mollineaux shrugged. ‘I can’t see either Sherri or Mark Greer poisoning their own children. Justin is dead and Alicia nearly died. That leaves the staff. I can’t see timid little Vera nor Martha Vaughan wanting to do away with Justin or Alicia.’ His lips twisted wryly. ‘And I refuse point blank to say that the butler did it. No. It had to be someone else. And Jimmy Speight saw who, and had to be silenced.’

  Mollern scratched his head. ‘Arbie Goulder wouldn’t need to steal paraquat, having plenty of poisonous stuff at his own nursery. And Babs hadn’t even arrived by then, nor had Watkins. I don’t get it. The more we find out, the less clear this case becomes,’ he said plaintively.

  But Jenny didn’t agree. It was becoming clearer by the moment.

  ‘Well, thank you for your help with Mrs Williams,’ Mollineaux said to Jenny. ‘I know your presence helped us all through a difficult interview,’ he added, in obvious dismissal.

  Jenny smiled, took the hint, and left.

  Having left the library, however, Jenny didn’t want to go to the kitchen to face Martha’s self-righteousness after the morning’s fracas. Instead she wandered about her room for a bit, generally feeling sorry for herself. Restless and unable to settle, she grabbed her bag and headed for the door, relieved to see that the hall was deserted. Outside, however, Mollineaux and Mollern had re-emerged and were standing on the porch, discussing tactics.

  No doubt they’d settled Alicia down and asked their preliminary questions. She wondered what they’d found out, but knew better than to ask. ‘Hello again. All finished?’ she asked instead, bright and cheery and showing no signs of her previous strain.

  ‘Yes,’ Mollineaux agreed, as unforthcoming as she’d expected.

  ‘Off somewhere?’ she tried again.

  ‘We thought we’d left Tom Banks to stew long enough,’ Mollineaux commented mildly, not fooled by her delicate questioning, but not dissatisfied either. He was beginning to realize that Jenny Starling could be very useful, if you handled her right. ‘No doubt, by now, he thinks he’s missed the police net. It’s about time we pointed out he hasn’t. As a motive, his is as strong as any,’ he added, unnecessarily.

  ‘Hmm,’ Jenny said thoughtfully. ‘When you get there, ask him about the paper knife he stole from the library.’

  ‘What?’ It was Mollern who asked the startled question and Jenny sighed and dutifully related the events of the night of the party and her interruption of Tom Banks pursuing some, to say the least, enigmatic activities.

  Mollineaux’s face had grown more and more grim with every word she uttered. ‘You should have told us all this before,’ he snapped when she’d finished, and she had the grace to look a little abashed. However, she quickly rallied.

  ‘Well, Inspector, if Justin had been found stabbed with a rather pretty, oriental-type paper knife, I no doubt would have done,’ she parried neatly, and this time it was Mollineaux’s turn to look discomfited. To cover it, he gave her a killing look and left the porch at a leisurely pace, heading towards their police car, parked out of sight on one of the long bends in the drive.

  Jenny followed his lead without even thinking about it, Mollern bringing up the rear.

  ‘Yes. We will definitely bring the paper knife up,’ Mollineaux conceded. ‘Not that I can see how the two incidents connect.’ He paused and rubbed his chin wearily. ‘I just don’t see how the poisoning was done,’ he said helplessly, his voice full of defeat. ‘However it works out, I can’t help but believe that the murderer, to get the poison to Justin and Alicia Greer, must have taken some incredible risks, and most of all with the other partygoer’s lives. It makes me shiver to even think it, but perhaps the killer didn’t care if others died as well. Perhaps it was only luck, or divine providence, that steered the poisoned champagne so that it hit its intended target right away.’

  For a long while the three people stood in silence, each contemplating that hideous thought. Eventually Mollineaux shook his head again. ‘To take such a risk is beyond belief.’

  Jenny, her eyes narrowed and her thoughts far away, slowly nodded. ‘Yes,’ she agreed thoughtfully. ‘It was such a desperate risk to take. Quite, quite reckless in fact.’

  Both the policemen looked at her quickly, struck by an identical thought. Namely, that Jenny Starling wasn’t thinking along the same lines that they were. She seemed, in fact, to be thinking about something else entirely. And not just thinking, but knowing.

  *

  Tom Banks looked up from his paper as three short sharp raps came on the door. His wife looked up from the houseplant she was pruning and frowned, but made no attempt to answer it. With a sigh, Tom rose and went to the door and found himself face to face with officialdom.

  ‘Mr Banks?’ Mollineaux didn’t wait for confirmation. ‘I’m Inspector Mollineaux, and this is Sergeant Mollern. May we come in for a few moments? We’re making routine inquiries about the murder of Justin Greer.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Come in.’ He veered off to the left. ‘Let’s use the little front room, shall we?’ he murmured. ‘It gets the sun this time of year.’

  Comfortably seated in an old but well-made armchair, Mollineaux nodded to his sergeant, who, less comfortably perched on the edge of a very low sofa, retrieved his notebook and pen. Tom Banks, standing nervously in front of the unlit fireplace, didn’t seem to notice the policeman’s telling gesture.

  ‘Now, Mr Banks. You were invited to Mr Greer’s party, more or less at the last minute, weren’t you?’ Mollineaux began nice and easy.

  ‘That’s right. I daresay Alicia never thought of it. Mark invited me.’

  ‘That was nice of him,’ Mollineaux agreed blandly, then added silkily, ‘It was by way of a retirement farewell, wasn’t it?’

  Tom Banks flushed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re fifty-five, aren’t you, Mr Banks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A bit early to retire, isn’t it?’

  Tom began to fidget. He reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a pipe, then stared at it, realizing he had nothing to light it with. ‘Yes,’ he finally agreed. ‘When Mark’s son took over the firm he started like a new broom. Mark thought a twenty-year-old whizzkid was good for business,’ he added grimly. ‘And since he’d made enou
gh personal money to enjoy an early retirement, well, that was that.’

  Mollineaux tut-tutted sympathetically.

  ‘Greer Textiles used to be a happy firm to work for.’ Tom, obviously embittered, had the bit well and truly between his teeth now. ‘The workforce was well motivated and contented. Mark really knew how to run a company. But Justin, well, he only cared about making himself his own fortune. And it didn’t seem to matter to him what he had to do to get it, either.’ He seemed to run out of steam momentarily, and Mollineaux watched him carefully.

  ‘You didn’t like Justin Greer, did you, Mr Banks?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Tom admitted readily enough, then suddenly looked up from his pipe, as if only now scenting danger. ‘But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Do you do much gardening, Mr Banks?’ Mollineaux changed the subject, not commenting one way or another on his declaration of innocence.

  Tom blinked, totally wrong-footed. ‘Huh? Er, no, I don’t. That’s Fran’s province. She’s in the sitting room now, as a matter of fact, tending to the houseplants. She loves to potter about in the garden. A result of spending all her time at home alone, I suppose,’ he acknowledged, as if, for the first time in all their long years of marriage, wondering how his wife must have spent her time during all the hours he’d been at the office.

  His statement had the unerring ring of truth in it, and Mollineaux and Mollern exchanged glances. Damn. No use asking him about paraquat then.

  ‘I see. Tell me, Mr Banks, what were you doing rifling in the Greers’ library on the night of the murder, and what, exactly, did you want with a paper knife? Come to that, what were you doing in Mr Justin Greer’s bedroom? You were seen on both occasions,’ Mollineaux added quickly, just to nip in the bud any blustering denials.

  But Tom Banks didn’t seem all that interested in denials. He shrugged his shoulders and put his pipe back into his pocket. ‘It was bound to come out, I suppose,’ he acknowledged with a heavy sigh. ‘I was looking for evidence, Inspector. That’s what I was doing in the library and in his bedroom.’

  Both policemen perked up. ‘Evidence of what?’

  ‘Bribery and corruption,’ Tom said starkly. ‘I don’t suppose you know much about the textile business, Inspector?’ he asked, and Mollineaux had no trouble admitting that he didn’t.

  ‘Before Justin took over, Greers was a respectable firm, but not one of the top ones, and it wasn’t making anywhere near enough money to suit Justin. Then, all of a sudden, we began landing prestigious orders. A new fancy hotel in London. A marquis of somewhere or other wanting the baronial pile refitted out. One or two huge foreign orders that had been rumoured to be heading towards top manufacturers, that kind of thing. Suddenly they were being landed by Greers.’

  As the policemen continued to look blank, Tom Banks sighed angrily. ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Young Justin had to be giving out backhanders to somebody. He also had to have spies in the other camps to know exactly what offers were being tendered, and so undercut them. And where so much dodgy business was going on, there must have been records. Justin couldn’t have kept it all in his head. The scandal if it had all come out! It was too much. I just couldn’t stand by and do nothing.’

  Tom began to look a little abashed now, and his next confession explained the uneasy look. ‘I kept the paper knife, after I couldn’t find any evidence in the library, in case I came across a strong box in his bedroom. I thought I might be able to jemmy the lock.’

  ‘I see,’ Mollineaux said, straight-faced. ‘And did you find any evidence in his bedroom, sir?’

  ‘No. He must have kept it somewhere else. But not in his office – I’d searched that before leaving the company. Nobody could ever accuse Justin of being stupid, Inspector. He had his father well and truly bamboozled. If Mark had ever found out what he was up to …’ Banks trailed off, suddenly looking like a very sad, old man. ‘We worked for years together to make that firm a success. But the merchandise we’re running off now is just miles and miles of cheap and nasty stuff.’ He shuddered visibly. ‘Oh, it’s profitable all right. It makes the money. Mass market, and all of that. But our reputation as makers of fine carpets and blankets and materials is all but destroyed. And yet we’re still pinching a lot of the prestigious contracts away from the top dogs. Although that’ll all stop now that Mark’s back in control, of course. I only hope he doesn’t find out what his son was doing. That’s what I’m hoping for now. It’s bad enough as it is, with Justin being murdered I mean.’

  He stopped abruptly, as if only now realizing that the man he’d been vilifying as a crook and a vandal had been summarily poisoned to death. Again he shook his head. ‘But I didn’t kill Justin Greer,’ he said simply. ‘I’m not a murderer.’

  Mollineaux rather believed him. He was really rather a pathetic figure. ‘Well, I don’t see why Mark Greer should get to hear of your midnight escapades,’ Mollineaux said, seeing the relief flood across Banks’ grey and haggard face. ‘No doubt he has enough to cope with as it is. You may be pleased to hear that his daughter has just returned from hospital.’

  He watched the man closely, but Banks showed little reaction at all to the news of Alicia’s return, except to give a brief smile of relief. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Banks, that’s all for the moment. You don’t have any immediate plans to leave town, do you?’

  Banks agreed that he hadn’t, and showed them out. He shut the front door with a weary feeling of relief, and returned to the sitting room, prepared for a grilling by Fran. But his wife was nowhere in sight. He went through the open French windows and saw her on the lawn. Better get it over with, he supposed.

  As he approached, he saw that she was wearing protective rubber gloves, and was making up a solution of something or other in a large bucket. As her husband walked towards her, Fran Banks poured a carefully measured dose of paraquat into the water.

  *

  Jenny heard the overhead bell tinkle and looked up. She was in Meg’s Tea Room, a tiny little establishment she’d discovered tucked away overlooking the village green. No doubt it was only open during the tourist season.

  The tiny converted cottage had no more than four little tables crammed onto a meagre floor space, but they were covered with pretty red and white check tablecloths, and each housed a vase of freshly cut flowers. From the kitchen, where Jenny had instantly pointed her nose, came the smell of freshly baking scones and on the counter stood a large, china teapot. The teapot and the smell had induced her to stay.

  She’d enjoyed the excellent tea and well-cooked scone in solitary splendour, and now she looked up at the sound of the bell, not particularly pleased to have company. Then she saw Margie Harding, looking dead on her feet in the doorway, and quickly changed her mind.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Harding,’ Jenny said pleasantly, and saw the woman’s eyes widen as she recognized her. She began to make a U-turn, no doubt anxious to escape, when Meg emerged from the kitchen. She appeared to be eighty, if she was a day, but she bustled like a spring lamb, and there was steel in her slender frame.

  ‘Hello, Margie. You look like you could do with a good cup of tea, my girl,’ Meg said, more as an order than an observation, and disappeared back into the kitchen to start a new brew.

  Surrendering to the inevitable, Margie came fully into the room, glanced at Jenny, who smiled sympathetically back, and shrugged her thin shoulders. She joined the Junoesque cook at her table, slumping down with a complete lack of energy.

  ‘Those policemen can be very thorough,’ Jenny accurately assessed the reason for her inertia. ‘If they asked me one question about the cooking I did for that damned party, they asked me a thousand. Honestly,’ she grumbled chattily, ‘how many times can you reassure a policeman that you always washed your hands after handling meat?’

  Margie, for what seemed like the first time in years, felt her lips twitch. ‘You think you had it bad,’ she said wearily.

  ‘Yes. Well, you were rather
suspicious, worming your way into the party like that. I daresay the police thought it all very interesting,’ Jenny pointed out reasonably, making it clear, straightaway, that she knew what she knew, and wasn’t going to beat about the bush.

  Margie gave her a startled look, then, seeing nothing but sympathy in the surprisingly beautiful blue eyes of the woman sat opposite, shrugged wearily. ‘I needed to see him. I had to see him. It’s as simple as that.’

  Jenny sipped her tea. ‘I know. But I don’t suppose the police thought it was so simple.’

  ‘No. They didn’t.’

  ‘And it was really bad luck that you should be the one to serve the champagne for the toast.’

  Margie flushed angrily. ‘You can say that again. I wish Will had served it. Or Martin. Anyone but me!’

  ‘But you couldn’t resist having a closer look at Alicia, I expect. Up close, I mean, hmm?’ Jenny prompted softly, and Margie bit her lip and looked away.

  After a moment, she looked back again. ‘She didn’t even recognize me,’ she said, not denying the cook’s totally accurate guess, and her voice was low with remembered disbelief. ‘All the times we met in the village before she and Keith, well, you know, but for all those times we bumped into each other, it just goes to show she didn’t even notice me. I was just another frumpy housewife to her – another little nobody. Not the beautiful lady of the manor. Oh no.’

  Jenny ignored the understandable bitterness. It was only to be expected. ‘But Keith must surely have seen you. Why didn’t he stop you, or at the very least, take the tray off you?’ she asked.

  ‘Why should he?’ Margie asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘He didn’t know the wine was poisoned. I didn’t know it was poisoned. Though I’m not surprised someone other than me wanted to kill her,’ Margie carried on, her voice dripping with spite now. ‘You should have seen her that night. Issuing orders like Napoleon, she was. Do this, do that. Put that there. No, not there, there. I don’t know why she got that party co-ordinator in. She was always interfering. Everything had to be exactly right. The cake had to be brought in on the stroke of midnight, not a minute later. The wine had to be opened for such and such a length of time before serving. It had to be the right temperature. She was an absolute bitch about it all,’ Margie said, her hands curling into tight fists as she talked. ‘I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the head wine waiter hadn’t done it, because she gave him hell. She gave us all hell, treating us like slaves rather than caterers. Even the head waiter said he’d never known a hostess so fussy. She hovered over all of us all night, like the wicked witch of the west.’