‘I’M AFRAID IT’S NOT WORKING YET, sir. The telephone, I mean. I’ve just got back from the village.’
Red-cheeked from the cold, Baxter stamped the snow off his boots. Sinclair had put his head outside to check on the weather and found the chauffeur about to mount the shallow steps to the front door.
‘I thought I’d save the baker’s boy another trip and find out about the phone at the same time.’ Baxter indicated the pair of loaves wrapped in brown paper he had under his arm. ‘Bob Greaves told me the phone line was down between the village and Enstone. The trouble is the repair crew’s having trouble getting there because of the road being blocked. It’s not just that lorry we heard about. Bob said there were a couple of cars that had also got stuck after the drivers tried to get through. The lord knows how long it’ll be before they clear it.’
‘That’s a pity.’
The chief inspector did his best to hide his disappointment. His abortive sortie into Oxfordshire in search of the mysterious Mr Beck was becoming a serious embarrassment to him. The previous evening he had learned from Philip Gonzales’s lips that none other than John Madden had come to Oxford, presumably with the intention of laying him by the heels and hauling him ignominiously back to Highfield and the reproaches he knew were awaiting him there. He had gone to bed hoping that the line would be restored by morning so that he could at least ring his old friend and explain how he had got into what must seem to both Madden and Helen like an absurd situation.
‘Well, I’d better tell Mrs Lesage,’ Baxter said. ‘Do you know if she’s come down yet?’
‘I had breakfast with her and Mr Gonzales twenty minutes ago,’ Sinclair told him. ‘Then they disappeared into the study, just the two of them. I wouldn’t disturb them if I were you. They seem to be having some kind of conference.’
He spoke lightly, but saw Baxter’s eyes widen.
‘Without Mrs Holtz, you mean?’ He took a second or two to absorb what Sinclair had said. Then, as though remembering himself, his face broke into a smile. ‘Oh, well, I’d better leave them to it, then.’
He started to go past the chief inspector, but stopped. ‘If you’re thinking of going outside, sir, you’d better put on that pair of wellingtons I left out for you in the gun room. The snow came up to my knees in some places. I’ll go and get them for you if you like.’
‘No, don’t bother, Baxter. I know where that is.’
The chief inspector was indeed preparing to venture out. Like a long-distance runner pausing to catch its breath, the overnight snow had diminished to a mere scattering of flakes. But the forecast Sinclair had heard on the wireless less than an hour before had warned that renewed heavy falls could be expected in the next few hours.
‘As you wish, sir.’
The chauffeur disappeared inside. Sinclair surveyed the white expanse before him. The line of footprints leading across the forecourt to the driveway lent force to the cautionary advice Baxter had just given him. Each step had left a deep imprint in the snow. Nevertheless the chief inspector was not discouraged. He felt the urgent need for some fresh air. He was starting to feel what he had once heard an American acquaintance of his describe as ‘cabin fever’.
A subtle change had occurred in the atmosphere of the household—Baxter’s reaction a moment ago was just another symptom of it—and while it undoubtedly dated from the moment Philip Gonzales had arrived the night before, the chief inspector had so far been unable to put his finger on what precisely that change involved. Observing the new arrival at dinner, it had been clear to him on the one hand that the man was a practiced charmer. If indeed Gonzales was playing the part of a devoted admirer, as Ann Waites seemed to suspect, his performance could hardly have been better, while his account of his trudge through the snow from Enstone was related with the sort of self-deprecating humour that had robbed it of any heroic aspect. Yet withal the chief inspector thought he detected a real fondness in Philip Gonzales’s manner towards their hostess, and it seemed to him too that the feeling was reciprocated.
But quite separate from all that, there had been a certain tension in the air during the meal which had seemed to emanate from Ilse Holtz, whose customary silence had taken on what the chief inspector could only characterize as a watchful edge as Gonzales had laughingly fended off Julia’s attempts to get him to reveal what he’d been doing in Switzerland this past fortnight.
‘This isn’t the moment to go into all that,’ he had said, dismissing the notion with a graceful gesture. ‘Why don’t we sit down together tomorrow morning, just the two of us, and I’ll tell you all about it. I promise you won’t be bored.’
As he spoke the words he had turned his head in Mrs Holtz’s direction and the chief inspector had seen her glance harden. Thinking about it later he surmised that she had taken what he’d said as a not so subtle hint; she was being told, if she hadn’t grasped it already, that she would not be included in the meeting.
Reflecting on the scene later, it had occurred to him that there was something of the hothouse about Wickham Manor—something artificial in the atmosphere, and beyond that, something of the precious bloom requiring careful tending about its attractive owner, who had surrounded herself, not necessarily by design, with a retinue of devoted followers among whom feelings of jealousy and possessiveness seemed to thrive.
Unless, of course, he was imagining the whole thing, the chief inspector thought with a rueful grin as he donned the pair of wellington boots he found sitting on a table in the middle of the gun room a few minutes later. No longer used for its original purpose—blood sports had been one of her father’s passions, Julia had told him when they toured the house the first morning—it had become a depository of odds and ends, and apart from the sporting prints that still hung from the walls, most of them depicting dead game, the sole reminder of its former status was an old shotgun that rested on a pair of brackets fixed to the wall.
‘That’s to frighten away the rooks that congregate in the elms behind the stable yard,’ Julia told him. ‘Baxter likes to take it out now and again to bang away at them with birdshot. I’m not sure he’s ever managed to bring one down.’
Outside once more, clad in his overcoat, with a scarf wrapped around his neck and wearing his borrowed boots, Sinclair found that the forecast had not lied: a biting cold had set in and already the top of the snow was developing an icy crust. He had intended walking around the house to the terrace in front, but on viewing the expanse of snow covering the forecourt, no doubt more than knee-deep, he changed his mind and decided instead to restrict himself to an inspection of the garage and stable yard, which lay at the other end of the house. He was taking his tablets as prescribed and had been gratified to discover that his breathing—and presumably his pulse as well—remained regular. But despite the slow pace at which he set off now, making sure that one foot at least was secure before he moved the other, he found the effort was placing a greater physical strain on him than he’d foreseen and he was relieved when he found the garage doors open and could slip inside and pause in the relative warmth to catch his breath.
Other than the Bentley, which occupied half the garage, the space was taken up by a pair of lawnmowers and a large wooden chest, half-filled with an assortment of tools and bric-a-brac, which stood open with its lid pushed back. Nearby, leaning against the wall, was a pair of skis—sad reminders of the past for their owner, Sinclair thought; he wondered why she had kept them—and further along a toboggan was stood on its end.
There was a door at the back of the garage and when he opened it the chief inspector found it gave onto a small yard adjoining the house where the snow had been trampled into a dangerously slick surface. Reasoning that the lighted window he could see must be that of the kitchen, he was about to tempt fate by crossing what looked like an ice rink in front of him when the door next to the window opened and the burly figure of Baxter appeared.
‘Ah! There you are, sir.’ He hailed Sinclair. ‘I was afraid you might have gone outside. I should have warned you. It’s getting dangerous with all this ice about.’
‘Too late now,’ the chief inspector responded cheerfully.
‘Just hang on a moment and I’ll give you a hand.’ The chauffeur’s concern was plain. ‘This yard’s particularly dangerous. I nearly came a cropper myself this morning.’
He stepped cautiously onto the icy surface and began to cross it, half sliding and half walking. Sinclair waited until he was close by and then, taking his proffered arm, accompanied him back to the open door and into the comforting warmth of the kitchen, where he found the older of the two maids, Doris, standing with a spoon in her hand beside a steaming pot that was resting on top of a massive iron stove.
‘Come in, sir, come in.’ Somewhat flustered by his unexpected appearance, she put down the spoon she was holding and drew him towards a chair by the kitchen table. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’
‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ the chief inspector confessed. ‘But could I have a glass of water first?’
During his slow passage across the icy yard he had felt a familiar stab of pain in his chest—it was like a bolt tightening—and following his doctor’s instructions he took the bottle of pills from his pocket and tipped one of them into his free hand.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Baxter was regarding him anxiously, as was Doris.
‘Perfectly well, thank you,’ Sinclair reassured them. ‘It’s a simple precaution, nothing to worry about.’
Swallowing his pill without fuss he saw that Doris’s eye was still on him.
‘What do you say to a freshly baked scone with your tea?’ she asked.
‘I wondered what that delicious smell was.’
Although somewhat reserved in manner, she seemed friendly enough now and as the chief inspector doffed his hat and unwound the scarf from around his neck he reflected on the changes that had come about among domestic staff in the course of his lifetime. During his youth a house like this would have been filled with soft-footed maids taught to know their place, moving about with downcast eyes. Listening to Doris as she prattled on to Baxter, he thought how congenial the change was and wondered if it was due, at least in part, to the open nature of their mistress. It was hard to picture Julia Lesage ruling her household with anything resembling a rod of iron.
‘I see you’re still filling in for the cook,’ he said to her.
‘Poor Mrs Dawlish.’ Doris switched on the electric kettle. ‘She must have been trying to get back. I just hope she’s still with her daughter in Bicester and not stuck somewhere. I know Mr Baxter’s worried about his mother.’ She nodded to the chauffeur, who’d taken a seat facing Sinclair and was still rubbing his hands together to get the warmth back into them.
‘Didn’t Mrs Lesage tell me she lives in Suffolk?’ Sinclair wondered.
‘That’s right.’ Baxter nodded. ‘She and my dad retired there, but he died during the war. She’s got some good neighbours, but I do worry about her. They say the snow’s been bad all over. I just wish the phones would come back. Mum hasn’t got one of her own, but there’s a family just down the lane that I can ring. They tell me how she is.’
‘I know how you feel.’ The chief inspector sighed ruefully. ‘I have friends I want to call. They must be wondering what’s become of me. Ah! Those look wonderful.’
Doris had just deposited a plate of golden-topped scones together with a dish of butter and a jar of strawberry jam on the table between the two men, together with a plate and knife for each of them. As she turned to attend to the boiling kettle, the sound of hurried footsteps reached them. It was coming from the passage outside. The next moment Daisy burst in. Flushed and out of breath, she came to an abrupt halt as her gaze fell on Sinclair.
‘What is it?’ Baxter looked up from buttering his scone. Then, when the girl remained silent: ‘What’s the matter, Daisy? Cat got your tongue?’
Daisy’s eyes went to Doris. Her glance was pleading.
‘What is it, girl?’ Doris repeated the question, but more urgently this time. She went over to Daisy and put her arm around her. ‘Has something happened?’
The girl’s gaze stayed fixed on Sinclair. The chief inspector spread his hands.
‘I’ve a feeling I’m in the way,’ he said jokingly. ‘Is it something you’d rather I didn’t hear?’
‘Now, we’ll have none of that.’ Baxter broke in before the girl had time to answer. ‘Just tell us what it is—right now.’ He struck the table with the palm of his hand. ‘Spit it out.’
Still flushed, Daisy stood by the table, fists clenched. It seemed she was plucking up her courage to speak.
‘Something’s happened.’ She gasped out the words. ‘It’s Mr Gonzales and Mrs Holtz—they’re having a go at each other.’
‘What did you say?’ Baxter shot to his feet. When the girl failed to answer he barked at her. ‘What do you mean—having a go?’
‘They were shouting . . . I could hear them outside.’
‘Outside where?’
‘The study . . .’
‘Have you been eavesdropping, girl?’ Baxter scowled.
‘No, it wasn’t like that,’ Daisy protested. ‘I was walking down the corridor to the library when I heard the door to the study open behind me. I looked round and saw Mr Gonzales come out. He went the other way towards the hall and I heard him calling to Mrs Holtz. She must have been up in her room. “Mrs Holtz . . . Mrs Holtz,” I heard him calling out. And then he said, “Would you come down here right away? Mrs Lesage wants to speak to you.”’
‘And . . . ?’ Baxter’s expression had changed. Now it seemed he couldn’t hide his curiosity.
‘After a minute or two I heard her coming down the stairs, so I popped into the library.’ Daisy’s flushed cheeks grew redder. ‘I thought it would be better if they didn’t see me. But I heard them come back into the study next door where Mrs Lesage was and that’s when they started arguing.’
‘Do you mean Mr Gonzales and Mrs Holtz?’ Baxter’s eyes had narrowed.
Daisy nodded.
‘What about Madam?’
‘She wasn’t saying anything. It was just them two and they were shouting at each other. Mr Gonzales was the loudest, but I could hear Mrs Holtz answering back. She was really angry, I could tell.’
‘So what was it all about?’ Baxter glanced at Sinclair. He seemed to realize that he had stumbled into a questionable area: eavesdropping at second hand. ‘No, don’t tell me that.’ He checked himself. ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘It’s all right, Mr Baxter.’ Daisy sought to reassure him. ‘I couldn’t hear anyway. I don’t know what it was they were arguing about. And I didn’t hang about in the library to find out. I came straight here.’
‘So they’re still at it.’ Doris seemed the least impressed of any of them. ‘I thought that Mrs Holtz would run into trouble one of these days, her with her airs.’
She appeared to have forgotten Sinclair’s presence, but her words brought a scowl to Baxter’s face.
‘Now, that’s enough of that.’ He spoke sharply, and Sinclair noted that his assumption of the senior position seemed to be accepted by the other two. ‘I won’t hear any talk against Mrs Holtz. I know she’s not easy, but she’s always stood by Madam.’
The two maids shared a quick glance. Then Doris clapped her hands together.
‘Right. Let’s get on with things, then. I’ve got lunch to prepare, but I could do with some help. Daisy—those potatoes need peeling. Get busy.’