Chapter Eight

Sunday

She’d expected to sleep like the dead. Instead, skeletons with green faces careered around in her dreams, waving pumpkin lanterns all night long. Worn out, she hauled herself out of bed at first light—not too early at this time of year, at least—and did what she always did when she couldn’t sleep.

When the doorbell rang she was still staring, half asleep, half awake, at a mind map that held simply one word—“But.”

She slapped the book closed and rose wearily. On the doorstep stood a posse of policemen—Pamela again, but this time flanked by two community officers, their hunting instincts showing in their poised bodies and hound-like faces.

Her smile died. Hard to believe she had once thought Pamela a friend. Interesting how much a face relied on expression and mobility to give it meaning. Blank and inscrutable, the policewoman’s face consisted of a set of regular features but no empathy. Identity card in hand, Pamela pushed her way in and made straight for the kitchen. “Need to ask a few questions,” she said. “And we’d like to look round the premises.”

No point in bleating about search warrants—besides, Maggie had nothing to hide. “Be my guest. And what news of Lord Donnal?” She waited, hoping Pamela would revert to looking like the friend she had shared her evenings out with.

But Pamela nodded at her officers, and like the well-trained bloodhounds they were, they scampered off to search the house. “And outside premises,” she yelled after them before turning again to Maggie. “The pathologist confirmed the vicar’s death is suspicious. Suspects poison. Poison which could have been delivered through your face paint.”

“Nonsense. That’s just an old wives’ tale, disproved over and over. And that wouldn’t account for last night. Lord Donnal’s symptoms looked the same, and he wasn’t wearing face paint.”

The officers returned from their search, carrying what looked like very battered cans of paint. “They’ve been opened recently.” Pam sounded positively gleeful. “This may be just what we’re looking for.”

****

Maggie knew Pam was set to do everything in her power to arrest her for the vicar’s death, but oddly she was more concerned about Bram. The car accident in Spain had left her unable to drive, unable to feel safe as a passenger. What must it feel like to wonder if you’d killed someone?

“But...” What had Jimmy found in the deathly garden? What was his dad looking for? The car, of course. If she could find the car. And today would be ideal for scouting the premises, with Lord Donnal in hospital and Pam testing her paint find for lead.

She hardly remembered the journey to the manor. This time she knew how to open the gates and where to hide the bike. She started exploring where the gardens grew wild, remembering Jimmy’s warning not to touch anything. The sudden roar of a car engine split the silence, and she moved forward cautiously.

A red Jaguar E-type pulled out from under a tented tarpaulin and stood throbbing impatiently as its driver jumped out and disappeared back into the makeshift shelter. It was the work of a moment. Maggie took in the newly laid chalk path, the empty car, the engine running, and dived for the driving seat. She shifted it as far forward as it would go, pushed down on the clutch, chose second gear, and the car shot forward so fast it was all she could do to hold it steady on the path.

There was a yell behind her, but she didn’t look back. She was almost standing to see over the long bonnet. But, fuelled by adrenaline, she drove on and out of the manor grounds.