Saturday, January 11
Coombe Mallet
My appointment with Beryl Grey was set for ten o’clock. At breakfast, Yvie Innes warned me that the temperature was dropping, so I layered a heavy sweater under my jacket. Frost blanketed the pavement and parked cars. My breath turned into little puffs of frozen vapor.
I arrived at Queenie’s first and asked for a table in the corner, one that would give us as much privacy as possible in the small, public tearoom.
Beryl was ten minutes late. I was about to phone and ask if she needed to reschedule when the bell over the door jangled and I saw her bustle inside. She pulled off a scarf and a heavy tweed coat. I was momentarily surprised to see she was wearing modern clothing—a pair of navy wool trousers, a floral blouse, and what looked like a hand-knitted cardigan in rose-colored wool. I waved to get her attention.
“Hello,” she said, unsmiling. “I warn you in advance—I can’t stop long. My husband will be needing his lunch.” She took the chair opposite me, set her large handbag on the floor, and stared at me as if I were the Spanish Inquisition.
I gave her my warmest smile and, relying on my mother’s theory that honey attracts more flies than vinegar, said, “I’m grateful you came. It must be difficult for you with so many responsibilities.”
“Thank you.” Her voice softened slightly. “I don’t mean to be difficult. You and your husband were awfully kind when … well, you know.”
“You were very brave. If you don’t mind me asking, what will you do now that your employment at the Old Merchant’s House has come to an end?”
Our conversation was interrupted by a waitress who wanted to take our order. We decided on a pot of Darjeeling and a plate of traditional savory scones with cream cheese and chutney. A second breakfast, I decided, wishing I hadn’t eaten every bite of the Crown’s delicious sausages.
I repeated my question. “What will you do now, jobwise?”
“Look for another position. I’ve already put my name in at the employment agency. They tell me finding another job will be easy, but I shouldn’t expect one that pays as well.”
“At least you won’t have to walk to work or use an antique flatiron.”
“If it made him happy to live like that, who was I to question? It wasn’t really that difficult to comply. The bus stops practically in front of my house. I’d get out on the High Street and walk from there. The other passengers noticed my costume, but they never blinked an eye.”
“As I said, I have a few questions.”
She bristled. “The police have questioned me—quite thoroughly, I assure you. Even if your husband is a policeman, I don’t think I should be discussing the murder with you.”
“I’m not here to talk about the murder.” I tried to look shocked. “Our interest is in the items Mr. Littlejohn donated to the museum—the Victorian dress in particular. You know about that, I assume?” When she nodded, I went on. “Tom and I represent a private investigations firm hired by the museum to trace the provenance, the history, of the dress.” This was true, although I hoped she might go over her movements the morning Littlejohn was murdered again. The problem was how to broach the subject. “I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to be interrogated. All those questions: When did you arrive? What did you do? Did you see anyone? Hear anything unusual?” I laughed. “When I’m stressed, I don’t remember things very well.”
“Well, I remember everything.” She lifted her chin. “I arrived at the house precisely at twelve noon. I knew Mr. Littlejohn’s visitor had already been, because he’d left the tea things in the sink. I washed them up and made lunch. At twelve thirty, I carried the soup tureen through and called Mr. Littlejohn to the table as usual.”
Right there was the problem. “Now that’s interesting,” I said, trying for a casual tone. “Because I thought you said Mr. Littlejohn was always in the dining room at twelve thirty, already seated in his chair and waiting for you to serve his meal.” I gave her a rueful smile. “See, I told you I get things mixed up.”
“Well, yes, I suppose I did say that. But on that day … what I meant was—” She broke off, flustered. “That’s not important now, is it?”
“Of course not.” I smiled again, thinking it might very well be important. I’d mention it to Tom. “So you brought in his lunch at twelve thirty as usual. You’d prepared the food in advance.”
“That’s right. As I said, the soup just needed to be reheated. I’d made the sandwiches and wrapped them in cling film the previous afternoon because I wasn’t to arrive until noon. Mr. Littlejohn was always precise in his instructions.”
The waitress delivered our tea in a steaming brown pot with lovely cups and plates in tobacco-brown transferware. “The chutney today is apple and ale, house made.”
The scones were warm and looked delicious. I took one, sliced it in two, and spread half with a thick layer of cream cheese and the chutney, which turned out to be sweet. “Do you know anything at all about the Victorian dress?” I asked between bites. “Where your employer found it, for example?”
Beryl Grey’s mouth pleated in thought. What I’d said about calling her employer to lunch had rattled her, and I could see she wanted to make up for it. “I can’t say I do remember where he found the dress. Mr. Littlejohn rarely discussed his personal life with me. Our verbal exchanges were limited to domestic arrangements—what he wanted me to cook, when he was having visitors, what in the house needed special attention, that sort of thing.”
“Did you ever see the dress? Or the note that was pinned to it?”
“I did not.”
“Do you know when he purchased the household?”
“Yes. I know because everything had to be moved into the cellar, didn’t it? He asked me to sweep out one of the larger rooms down there, as they hadn’t been used in a long time. Quite a job it was too.”
“When was that exactly?” I was hoping her information would tally with Ivor’s.
“The sale was in July, but arranging for delivery took time because of the cast-iron stove—the weight of it. Everything was delivered in early August. If you need to know the precise date, I can check my calendar at home.”
“That won’t be necessary.” I took a sip of my tea and smiled. In spite of Mr. Rutley’s assertion that the trunk hadn’t been included on the auction inventory, I wanted to check for myself. And I wanted to see if Beryl Grey would lie. “Were you present, by any chance, when the items were delivered?”
“Of course. Mr. Littlejohn asked me to supervise, to make sure the deliverymen didn’t damage anything.”
“When my husband and I were there that first day, he showed us an old trunk with a domed lid, about two feet by three feet. Do you know the one I mean?”
“Certainly. He moved it into the morning room before you and your husband arrived.”
A flock of tiny birds took flight in my chest. “Inside was a very beautiful quilt.”
“I never saw that.”
“Do you remember if the trunk was delivered at the same time as the other items from the auction?”
“Oh, no. You’ve got that wrong. The trunk wasn’t part of that lot.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Mr. Littlejohn owned the trunk when I began working for him last February.”
“Really? Last February?”
She looked at me sideways, “Did he tell you otherwise?”
I shook my head. “It’s not important. We’re just trying to pin things down.” I pushed the plate of scones toward her. “Please, have another.”
“I think I might, thank you.”
I spread cheese and chutney on the other half of my scone. “So you noticed the trunk last February when you began working at the Old Merchant’s House. Did Mr. Littlejohn ever say anything about its history?”
“No. I assumed it had sentimental value—a family heirloom, perhaps.”
If it had, his sister, Donna Nixon, would have known about it. “Besides his sister, did Mr. Littlejohn have any other relatives? Does the name Thorne ring a bell, for example? Or Merivale?”
She shook her head. “He never mentioned either name to me.”
“I noticed that the house has a security system. Did Mr. Littlejohn tell you why he installed it?”
“He never told me anything.”
“Do you remember when it was installed?”
She shrugged. “Three months ago, maybe?”
I wanted to ask her about the break-in, but I’d promised Okoje to keep it quiet. Instead I asked, “Had something happened recently—something that caused him to want more security?”
She looked blank. “Not that I know of. I assumed it was because of all that expensive equipment.” If she was lying, she’d made a good job of it.
“Did he ever mention a Romani camp north of the Dart?”
“A Gypsy camp? No, although he gave a talk on the subject to that club he belonged to. I know because he’d checked some books out of the public library.”
“Did you know the police questioned Mr. Littlejohn’s sister, Donna, and her husband, Clive Nixon?” I was veering away from the dress, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She gave a small snort. “If the police believe that lot, they’ll believe anything.”
Perfect setup. “Oh, I agree. You must have been incensed when they told the police you’d been caught stealing a silver box.” I held my breath, waiting for the explosion.
Beryl’s head shot up. “Liars, both of them. Making trouble. I told the police I was taking the box home to polish.” A piece of the chutney had stuck to her upper lip. She dabbed it with her napkin. “Mr. Littlejohn expected me to keep the silver nice and shiny. Do you know how time-consuming that is? I couldn’t spend every waking hour at the Old Merchant’s House, could I? I have my husband to think about.”
“Of course you do. I can see how hard it must have been to juggle your responsibilities. Did you often take work home?”
“Only when necessary. And it was very unfair of him to accuse me … if he did, that is.” She flushed, realizing she’d given more away than she’d intended. “I’m not a thief, and Mr. Littlejohn never said I was. He always bought more food than was needed for a single gentleman. He knew I took the leftovers home for my husband.”
She’d given away even more now. “Did you know he was planning to replace you?” I gave her my innocent-as-a-spring-lamb look.
“Did they tell you that—the Nixons? It’s a wicked lie.” Her eyes shifted. “He wouldn’t have done that. It’s absurd.”
I could see she was shocked, but I could also see she was lying.
She stood, gathering her coat and handbag. “I’ll have to be going now.”
“If you think of anything that might—”
“I won’t.” She turned and marched toward the door, leaving me with the bill.
I remained at Queenie’s for another ten minutes, finishing my tea. I hate to waste food. So, apparently, had Beryl Grey when she worked for Littlejohn. Or had she, as Donna Nixon implied, ordered more food than necessary in order to take the excess home? Even if she had, it wasn’t a motive for murder, although being accused of the theft of a valuable sterling-silver box might be. And she’d been sensitive about the discrepancy in her movements the morning Littlejohn was killed. I couldn’t see how that was important, but still …
I took the last bite of my scone. Beryl Grey wouldn’t agree to any more interviews—that was clear. But I had learned a few things. She’d known Littlejohn was planning to replace her—I was sure of it. And Littlejohn had owned the trunk long before he purchased the household. Why had he pretended otherwise?
I paid the bill and left, feeling the waistband on my jeans cutting into my flesh.
“My goodness. Kate Hamilton. Hello.”
Clare Jamieson was coming out of the butcher’s shop, a carryall on her arm. “Have you tried the sausages here? My husband says he can’t live without them.”
“They supply the Crown. And I agree—impossible to resist.”
“It’s difficult, isn’t it, keeping one’s figure under control?” She gave me a conspiratorial wink, making my waistband feel even tighter. “Speaking of the Crown, I’m glad we ran into each other. I want to apologize for Quinn’s behavior the other night. She’s been under a lot of stress, the poor girl.”
“It can’t be easy being the target of attacks. And then the murder. I imagine the whole village is feeling the stress.”
“They are.” She shifted her carryall to her other arm. “Would you join me for a cup of tea at Queenie’s? We’re just in time for elevenses.”
“Tea?” I was stuffed, but I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to learn something. “Yes—I’d love to.”
We entered the tea shop. The waitress who’d served me just minutes before gave me a curious look but showed us to a table and handed us menus.
“Let’s treat ourselves, shall we?” Clare Jamieson clapped her thin hands. “Bring us the full cream tea, Dottie,” she told the waitress. “I’ll have the bill.”
I groaned inwardly.
As we waited for our food, Clare said, “Teddy told us about your dinner together. Did they tell you about Quinn’s relationship with her father?”
Where was she going with this? “A bit. I’m sure it’s been difficult for them both.”
“We’ve known Quinn since she was a little girl, you see. She’s always been independent, strong-willed, but what you must understand is her father, Karl, is an exceptionally controlling sort of parent. He’d call it ‘taking care of her,’ I suppose, and he does mean well, I’m sure of it. The problem is, they’re too much alike. Both controlling in their own way, which means they bump heads. Even at a young age, Quinn resented her father’s attempts to set the course of her life. She’s resisted his every attempt to steer her. It hasn’t been a healthy situation.”
“Wasn’t Quinn’s mother able to intervene?”
“Susan, yes. She tried—but she’d married Karl Benables. Old Devon family with bags of money. She knew what she was getting into. He likes to have his own way and generally gets it.”
“Except when his daughter fell in love with a man he considered unsuitable.”
“That’s it exactly. Karl was determined that Quinn come to her senses and end the relationship. The more he insisted, the more she dug in her heels.”
I thought about a similar case in Suffolk, one that had ended in the death of a young girl. The sight of her long blond hair floating in Blackwater Lake would never leave me.
The waitress delivered our tea, this time in a lovely pink flowered pot with a tiered silver tray—more scones, this time with jam and clotted cream; small glazed fruit tarts; pink and white meringues; cream puffs; and tartlets of phyllo dough filled with a sweet nut mixture. Oh, man. I’d have to eat something. Maybe I’d skip dinner.
“Here you are, dear.” Clare poured the tea. “You must try the scones. You’ll never find any better, I assure you.”
I took one, feeling slightly sick. “But now that Quinn and Teddy are married and have the twins, things must have changed a little.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Quinn’s mother has tried very hard, but Karl doesn’t want her spending time with her daughter and granddaughters. He sees it as disloyalty.”
“Wow.” I knew a thing or two about mothers and daughters, but this was way beyond my experience.
“She’s forced to see them when he’s out of town. Fortunately, he’s out of town a lot. He has business interests on the continent—Germany, Denmark, Italy. But it’s not a good thing, is it, to lie to your husband? He will find out.”
“What will he do?”
“I don’t think he’s a bad man at heart. He’s not violent. Just stubborn. We’ve never been great friends. He’s on the opposite side politically. But we care about the family. Quinn’s mother is lovely, and of course, we adore Quinn and the twins. Richard and I are their godparents.”
“How did you become friends with Teddy Pearce? Through Quinn?”
“Politics. My husband recognized his talents and mentored him. Of course, Teddy’s made his own way since then. Richard is content with local politics. Teddy has ambitions.”
“I’m surprised that Teddy’s election to the House of Commons hasn’t changed Quinn’s father’s mind about him. I mean, he’s making a success of his life.”
“Ah, but that doesn’t make up for Teddy’s background. Not with Karl Benables. That’s one of the reasons Quinn resents him so much. His precious daughter marrying a lad from the Burnthouse Lane estate? Unthinkable.”
“Burnthouse Lane?” The name was ringing a rather large bell.
“A council estate in Exeter.”
“Gideon Littlejohn grew up on the same estate—does Teddy know that?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so.” Clare Jamieson frowned. “There must have been thousands of people on the estate. But it had a reputation, and Quinn’s father swore she’d live to regret her decision. She’s never forgiven him for that, and she’s committed to proving him wrong. That’s why she’s so defensive. She wants Teddy to succeed and to be seen to succeed. I’m sure she loves Teddy—he’s crazy about her—but I’m afraid her overriding purpose in life is proving her father wrong.”
Was that true? If it was, Quinn had more problems than I realized.
Clare used a pair of silver tongs to slide a pink meringue onto my plate. “Eat up, dear.”
I smiled and raised my fork.