The Wychford Murders Read online

  He clenched his fists. ‘We’ve both been rather busy, lately. That doesn’t mean anything. Her professional life is . . . ’

  His mother snorted, delicately. ‘Delving into the inner recesses of perfect strangers is hardly work for a lady.’

  ‘My God, you’re impossible, Mother. Like something out of an E.F. Benson novel. Do you maintain these antediluvian attitudes intentionally, as some kind of prop to your public image, or do they just spring out of a lifetime of wilful ignorance?’

  She chose to ignore this. ‘As for her family – hardly our kind of people. I believe her father threw up a steady if unimportant position in the Civil Service to “find himself” and now spends his life daubing second-class paintings in some fishing village . . . ’

  ‘Her father is a fine water-colourist who lives in St Ives and is a member of the RA.’

  She rolled on. ‘—And her mother “weaves” or something similarly rough-handed. All sandals and beads, no doubt, like those hippies up at the craft centre.’ She eyed him covertly to see if these darts had gone home, and was annoyed to see him wearing a look of patient resignation. Time to change tack. ‘Her aunt is on the Church Committee with me, of course. She was a Debenham before her marriage. I find her acceptable, although a little erratic. All the Debenhams are. But that uncle of hers!’ Outrage overcame judgement, as it so often did. ‘Dreadful man. Dreadful!’

  Mark’s mouth twitched. ‘Just because he told you a few home truths . . . ’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She dismissed the subject.

  ‘You want me to marry some hideous female from some so-called good family, who will honk around me telling me what to say and remind me what fork to use. Well, I won’t. It would be my final surrender and, dammit, one like you is enough. What I really need is a strong-armed red-cheeked country girl who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. Just keeping the rats down – the real rats, that is, not the Inland Revenue – is wearing me out.’

  His mother, a small, expensively dressed woman with curly grey hair and fluttering hands, shivered elaborately and gracefully. ‘Not the rats again, darling. Please.’

  Mark felt like striking her, and might have, if he’d thought it would have any effect, or get through the wall of fantasy she’d built around herself. At fifty-six Mabel Peacock Taubman was fighting a steady holding action against Time as it affected her body, her mind, and her surroundings.

  Peacock Manor was a massive and gloriously beautiful house set in several acres of Cotswold gardens, the eastern border of which gave on to the grounds of a recently converted monastery. Much care had been exercised to keep this latter operation out of sight, and it was only over the strenuous objections of Mrs Taubman that the Monkswell Craft Centre had come into existence at all. She had claimed that it would destroy the ‘ambience’ of Peacock Manor, but, in truth, it would have taken a great deal more than a craft centre to do that. The manor was a monument to the nameless architect who’d fashioned it centuries before. It was said Capability Brown had had a hand in the designing of the gardens, but Mark had found no mention of such an association in the house records, which were complete and a collector’s item in themselves. An architect himself, by inclination as well as by (uncompleted) training, he found the house a constant source of inspiration and comfort. But whereas his mother saw it as a fit setting for herself as well as an indicator of social status, he saw it whole, and clearly.

  It was destroying them.

  Like some beautiful, loved, but useless animal, it was literally eating them out of house and home. Taxes, rates, maintenance – it was gnawing away what little available capital they had left.

  The difficulty was that, according to his late father’s will, his mother held the purse-strings until such time as he married and produced an heir. Therefore, as far as she was concerned, the money and the house were hers in trust, and she didn’t intend it to go to just any Thomasina, Deirdre, or Harriet. She was a capricious woman and had not been forthcoming with her approval for a wife. That, too, was a provision of the will, for she had dominated Mark’s father before him fully as much as she dominated her son.

  Mark had left university when his father died because Mabel had no idea how to run the estate, and had demanded his return. Perversely, she wouldn’t hand things over to professional management. Or, in her words, ‘strangers’. It was yet another strand to the web she’d woven around him. Mark had to beg her largesse for the life of the house. She played a coquettish game of ‘not understanding finance’, and made terrible scenes over any expenditure, unless it was on herself. Not that the house wasn’t worth the effort. Mark would have wheedled his life away for the house, but the present situation was hopeless – and so, it seemed, was any possibility of his mother perceiving it. The simple truth was, they had to do something drastic, or sell.

  ‘A conference centre is not like an hotel, Mother,’ Mark went on, sulkily. ‘Companies bring their senior management to them to have discussions or to take concentrated courses . . . ’

  ‘A school? That’s even worse.’

  ‘No, love. Like . . . like . . . ’ He floundered in his mind, trying to grasp the correct description, one that would both penetrate her obstinacy and feed her conceit.

  ‘Like giving house parties,’ he finally said. ‘It’s true, we wouldn’t know the people personally, but they’d hardly be poor or uninteresting, because we’d charge them the earth to come here, wouldn’t we? And someone like yourself, who knows the correct way of doing things and so on . . . well . . . it would make all the difference, you see. You’d have a staff to attend to all the physical details, you know – cooking, housekeeping, and so on. You would merely act as a gracious hostess, preside at the dinner table, answer any questions about the house . . . that sort of thing,’ he finished, lamely. Her back was to him, and he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. ‘They’d be top-drawer people, Mother, Cabinet Ministers, perhaps, industrialists, people from the arts . . . ’

  ‘Like a salon?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She turned, and he saw, with relief, that it had penetrated, at last. Moreover, she seemed suddenly taken with the idea. ‘In France, during Napoleonic times, women in society often had salons where the famous came to meet and talk together. Some of the women became famous themselves, Madame de Staël, for one, and that other one . . . no, she was someone’s mistress or a model or something. Anyway, is that the kind of thing you mean?’

  ‘I suppose so. Mostly it would be weekends or single weeks, so the rest of the time the house would still be ours – or as good as ours, aside from the servants – and life would be pretty much as before. We’d just be entertaining more, that’s all.’

  ‘Your stepfather wouldn’t like it.’

  Mark shook his head. ‘Actually, it was Basil’s idea in the first place. Just a casual thought, but I saw the possibilities immediately, and we’ve talked it over quite a bit.’

  ‘Basil approves?’ This seemed to startle her.

  ‘Of course. My God, you know how he loves the house – perhaps even more than we do. He practically croons over every nook and cranny – I’ve caught him stroking the stones from time to time.’ His tone was determinedly light. ‘And talking to it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ His mother almost smiled. She found her second husband’s enthusiasm for Peacock Manor charming. It was, she was certain, just a reflection of his love for her.

  ‘Well, you know what I mean, He says it’s worth any effort to avoid losing it to strangers. He’s right. But we will lose it, Mother. I’ll have to sell, soon, if we can find no other way. It’s my house, remember.’

  ‘You can’t sell it out from under me, Mark!’

  ‘Ah, but I can, Mother. I simply would rather find another way.’ He had intended to scare her, and he saw by her expression he had succeeded. He stood up and went over to look out of the mullioned
windows at the sweep of uncut lawn. ‘Anyway, I’m grateful for Basil’s support, even if it’s all words and no action.’

  ‘He’s trying to make money for us . . . ’

  ‘But not succeeding. Let’s face it, Mother, he’s a delightful fellow, but no great shakes at business.’

  ‘One could say the same of you, my darling boy.’ Her voice was sweet, but her expression was not, and Mark knew he’d gone too far. Criticising her precious second husband was strictly a no-go situation.

  ‘Basil would also be an asset here, you know,’ he went on, a trifle desperately. ‘He looks terrific, plays good golf and tennis, can mix with all sorts, and people take to him. They really do.’

  ‘Yes, of course they do,’ his mother said, impatiently. ‘You don’t have to lay it on so thickly, darling. I am considering your little idea, you know. It might not be as bad as I originally thought.’

  Mark winced inwardly at the ‘little’ tag being attached to the plan he’d been nurturing for the past year or so, that of turning Peacock Manor into a commercial concern. Discreetly, handsomely, of course – but a business all the same.

  It was ideally located in the Cotswolds, with the benefit of a direct rail link to London. Admittedly the service left something to be desired – only four up and four down trains a day – but they were morning and evening, timed for commuting. The network of motorways also reached within five miles of the town, which was approached on all four sides by decent and beautifully routed minor roads. True, there was usually a traffic jam at the Martyr’s Bridge, but Peacock Manor was isolated from all that. It was, in fact, the ideal place for the tired businessman to rest and relax.

  Eventually Mark intended to add a small golf course to the tennis courts they already possessed (but which needed re-surfacing). Perhaps even a squash court or two in the cellars, which were extensive and, at present, largely unused. Wisely, for once, he held his tongue about these envisaged ‘improvements’, and stuck to the point.

  ‘I think I could make a great deal of money, make Peacock Manor famous – in the right way of course – and, in general, get everything on a permanently sound financial footing. Eventually, perhaps, we could even accumulate enough capital to stop the thing.’ Over my dead body, he added, silently.

  ‘Show me those plans again. The ones for the bedrooms, I mean.’

  Mark made for his study. ‘I have them right in here,’ he said, eagerly.

  Slowly, smiling to herself, his mother followed him. Looking at something was no commitment, and it would pacify him for the moment. Tomorrow she’d take another look at that damned will.

  Chapter Four

  Jennifer’s last call was in the new housing estate, to check on Tricia Baldwin’s new baby, who had been ‘poorly in the night’. However, it was immediately clear that Darren Patrick was in fine fettle, plump and gleaming with health in his pram. That was more than could be said of his mother, who looked pale and exhausted. Gently, Jennifer asked questions while writing up her notes. The baby got her down sometimes, Tricia admitted. She was worried because she had lost her temper at him that morning, and had shouted loud enough to frighten him – as well as herself.

  Jennifer grinned. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘Getting cross is perfectly normal. If a new mother tells us she occasionally has the impulse to chuck her baby down the stairs, we know she’s probably going to be all right. The ones who worry us are those who have irritable babies and yet insist fervently that everything is “just perfect”. They might snap, one day, and do some real damage. Nothing is ever “perfect” with a baby in the house. Babies are annoying, self-centred egotistical little creatures. You’d get angry if an adult behaved the way they do, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose I would.’ Tricia gave Jennifer a sideways glance. ‘Sometimes he gets on Fred’s nerves something awful. When he can’t stand it any longer he just storms out of the house, and walks around for hours. He says the sound of the baby’s cry makes him feel crazy, and it’s true. Last night, his eyes just went blank and he walked out of here like a robot or something. He didn’t come back for hours and hours. Does what you said go for fathers, too?’

  Was this the real reason she had asked for a house call? Jennifer suspected so, especially when the baby was so patently healthy. Poor girl, she’d been frightened by her own husband. Jennifer knew the feeling only too well. She was instantly sympathetic, while privately making a mental note to check Fred Baldwin’s records for signs of instability when she got back to the surgery. No sense having a mother and baby at risk.

  ‘Certainly, fathers can get upset, too. But he goes out, doesn’t he, rather than hurt the child? He gets rid of his anger by walking around, using up the energy the anger generates. I think that’s a good solution. I imagine you often wish you could do the same – walk away. Am I right?’ She looked closely at the girl. After a moment, Tricia Baldwin blushed, and nodded.

  ‘I did, once, and left him holding the baby. I mean really. When I came back they were both asleep on the sofa and the television was just blaring away.’

  ‘And no harm done to either.’ Jennifer smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I can see you’re a fine mother. He’s a lovely, healthy baby. I suspect the trouble last night was a tooth coming in. I’ll give you a prescription for something to help him through it. I sometimes think parents suffer more than babies when teething time arrives. If you think this is bad, wait until he starts chewing the furniture! They can be as bad as puppies!’

  Tricia laughed, at last. Jennifer tickled Darren Patrick’s stomach gently and he gave her a quizzical glance. Should he cry at this final outrage or not? He’d just been fed, and it was very comfortable there in the pram. On balance, he decided to let it go, and fell asleep.

  ‘Is that you, Jennifer?’ came a voice from the sitting room.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t you’d better have the locks changed, Aunt Clodie,’ Jennifer called out, putting down her case and hanging up her jacket. She went into the sitting room and kissed her aunt, who was seated at her embroidery frame placed in the bay window to catch the last of the late afternoon sun.

  ‘Don’t be flippant, dear,’ her aunt murmured, mildly, inserting another French knot with practised ease. ‘It will give you sciatica.’

  Jennifer halted halfway to the sofa. ‘How can being flippant give me sciatica, for goodness’ sake?’ she demanded.

  Aunt Clodie bit off the end of her silk thread. ‘Because sooner or later someone will kick you up the backside for it,’ she said, bending down to extract a different colour from the skeins in her work-basket.

  ‘And I had to ask,’ Jennifer said, flopping on to the sofa. ‘Have there been any calls since I left?’

  ‘No, dear. Nothing. The world seems to be quite healthy today.’

  ‘Not completely. There’s been a murder.’ She tossed the evening paper over to her aunt. ‘Rather a nasty murder, as a matter of fact. One of our patients, apparently. Frances knows the woman – she was treating her for a bad back.’

  ‘Dear Frances – she’s been such a godsend with your uncle.’ Clotilda glanced down at the paper where it lay beside her feet. ‘I shall read about it after dinner, when I feel stronger.’

  Jennifer took a long, deep breath and kicked her shoes off. ‘David allowed me four house calls this afternoon. Mr Teague, Mr Kretzmer, Mrs Tippit, and Mrs Baldwin. He took all the rest.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s trying to spare you.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Jennifer snapped. ‘I know you like him, but really, Aunt Clodie, isn’t it about time he trusted me with more than boils and babies?’

  ‘He will, he will. If only you wouldn’t fly off the handle the way you do . . . I know that disconcerts him.’

  ‘He just closes down like a clam and walks away. He’s a pompous, smug, impossible bastard!’ Jennifer hit the arm of the couch with a balled fist, wishing it were Gregson’s head.<
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  Aunt Clodie sighed. ‘Why are all the attractive men such stinkers? It seems to be a law of nature. The minute I met your uncle I thought he would be fun because he was so ugly. After all the conceited, pretty men I’d known, he was a great relief. Mind you, there’s fun and fun,’ she added, with some asperity. ‘The dear old fool.’

  Jennifer gazed at her aunt with love and amusement. Aunt Clodie had been a flightly girl, by all accounts; the reigning beauty of the county and a social butterfly, but with a whim of iron. Marrying Wallace Mayberry had been something of a rebellion. The subsequent years of living with her adored but impossible husband had instilled in her the kind of patience known only to sufferers of chronic pain or poverty.

  ‘I had tea with Frances in the Copper Kettle. Mark Peacock had closed his shop early for some reason. All worn out by fleecing the American tourists, I expect.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, dear. It will give you lines in the face.’ Clodie plunged her needle into the linen and out again. ‘Mark may have many faults, but dishonesty isn’t one of them.’ She looked up and their eyes met. ‘At least, I don’t think it is.’ For all her soft appearance, Clotilda Mayberry, neé Eames, was possessed of a first-class mind, and had a good instinct for people. ‘Mark is such a charming man, so cultured and intelligent, I wish you’d . . . ’ She stopped. Aunt Clodie also possessed a sharp eye, and could see that Jennifer was not in a mood to be cajoled about Mark Peacock. She wondered, not for the first time, what had caused the rift between them. When Jennifer had first arrived, she and Mark had seen quite a lot of one another. Then Jennifer had gone up to London for a week to finish off the selling of her flat, and since she had returned, Clodie was certain she had seen nothing of Mark at all. It was very puzzling. Meekly, she went back to her embroidery.

  ‘Maybe I could poison David Gregson,’ Jennifer mused.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jennifer. That’s another thing that upsets David, I’m afraid. When you say such wild things.’