The screaming continued. David, followed by Oscar and Alfie, ran through the dining room and into the grand hall. A waitress was leaning against the wood-panelled wall, hysterical.
And at the foot of the stairs knelt Charlie Tennison, holding Isobel who lay limp in his arms.
“No!” howled Tennison, shaking his wife, whose head flopped sideways, revealing bloodstained hair. The marble floor was stained red.
Alfie froze. Had Charlie Tennison just murdered his wife? Had he been incensed by her flirting? Was this Alfie’s fault? He had wanted to provoke Tennison into attacking him, not Isobel. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have drunk so much.
The waitress tottered towards Oscar and collapsed on to his shoulder. He had to put both arms round her to keep her upright.
David was already speaking urgently to the 999 operator. Rosemary Savile came running in from another part of the house and knelt down beside Tennison. Alfie saw her take Isobel’s pulse and remembered she had been a nurse. She looked up at her husband and briefly shook her head. Guests were beginning to gather at the edge of the marble-floored hallway, gawping.
Rosemary got up and quickly shooed them back down the corridor to the dining room.
“I’m afraid there’s been an accident. If you wouldn’t mind giving us a moment, I’ll have coffee brought to you.”
She came back to Tennison and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Charlie,” she said softly. “Charlie, I’m so sorry, she’s gone.”
“No!” It was a bellow of despair. Charlie held his wife closer, his face next to hers.
“Charlie, my dear. Come with me, come on now.”
He shook his head stubbornly, clinging to the body.
“I’m sorry, Isobel, I’m sorry,” he whispered, tears pouring down his cheeks. “I never meant to hurt you. I love you.”
Alfie saw Rosemary exchange a shocked look with David. But she stayed where she was, stroking Tennison’s hair as though he was a distraught child. It was clear they couldn’t get him away from Isobel except by brute force.
He was sobbing now, repeating over and over again how sorry he was, and how much he loved her.
David turned to Alfie and Oscar. “Nothing more we can do until the emergency services arrive,” he said in an undertone. “Oscar, take Lucy into the library and get her a drink. Alfie, you stay here and keep an eye on Charlie, and I’ll get the other guests occupied.”
Even if he hadn’t been instructed to stay, Alfie couldn’t have gone anywhere. He felt queasily sluggish. He leaned against the wainscoting and watched Oscar half-drag the waitress now hiccupping with sobs into the library.
Suddenly, there was a mechanical whirring from somewhere nearby, and Alfie nearly jumped out of his skin. The grandfather clock on the other side of the hall chimed the hour, eleven o’clock, and Alfie was still shivering when the final knell died away. Charlie Tennison didn’t seem to hear anything as he cradled his wife’s body.
He wasn’t sure how long it was before he heard the sound of approaching sirens. But it was clear the ambulance crew could do nothing to help Isobel Tennison.
The scene now belonged to Sergeant Harold Wilson who had scant sympathy for Charlie Tennison.
“Get that man out of here,” he barked.
With difficulty, David managed to pull his cousin to his feet, and guided him into the library, closing the heavy oak door behind them.
“I want this whole area secured until the forensic team gets here,” Wilson snapped at Rosemary Savile. “Nobody goes up or down that staircase, understood?”
She nodded. “Of course. I’ll make sure everyone goes by the staff corridors and stairs. Is it all right if they go to bed if they want?”
Wilson made a show of thinking about it. “I suppose so. I don’t expect I’ll be taking statements from everyone until tomorrow. But nobody leaves this house until I say so.”
Rosemary responded calmly: Alfie imagined it was how she would have dealt with a difficult patient on the ward. “The guests are all still here, but some of the staff have already left. I’ll get you a list of names, and contact details for anyone who’s not here.”
The sergeant gave a disgruntled sniff. “Make sure you do.”
Rosemary headed in the direction of the dining room.
Alfie understood why the sergeant seemed even more ill-tempered than usual. Harold Wilson was notoriously work-shy and always made Constable Emma Hollis, Liz’s great-niece, bear the brunt of whatever they had to do. But Emma was off on holiday to Portugal, meaning that Wilson would have to do everything himself.
Wilson stared at Alfie with his usual loathing. “This is a police matter, McAlister. I want no interference from you or the old ladies.”
Alfie bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do to remind the sergeant how many cases had been solved thanks to Liz, Marge and himself, and how few would have been solved if it had been down to Harold Wilson and his irrational belief that most crime was committed by foreigners. At least in this case, whether Isobel’s death had been accidental or not, it was clear who had been responsible.
But did he bear some of the responsibility as well? As the sergeant prepared to go into the library, Alfie knew he had to say something.
“Sergeant, could I have a quick word?”
“Is this another of your wild theories, Mr McAlister? I can probably manage without it.”
“It’s information you should have,” said Alfie. “It’s about-”
He paused and indicated a secluded alcove with two winged armchairs where they could talk without danger of being overheard.
The sergeant followed him with a sceptical look and took a seat. “Go on.”
Alfie exhaled. “It’s about what happened. I mean, I don’t know exactly what happened-”
“Don’t waste police time, Mr McAlister, that’s a very serious offence.”
“It’s just, I may have had something to do with it.”
The sergeant’s eyes glinted. He had already arrested Alfie once and, according to Emma, his dearest wish was to see Alfie behind bars permanently.
“I was-” Alfie stopped. How could he explain?
“Spit it out,” snapped Wilson. “Or we can discuss it down at the station.”
There was no point in prevaricating. “I was flirting with Mrs Tennison. I was doing it to make Mr Tennison angry.”
Wilson looked at him keenly. “And why was that?”
“It was stupid. I was drunk.”
“I’m quite prepared to believe you were drunk and stupid, Mr McAlister. That still doesn’t answer my question. Or were you trying to make all the husbands angry?”
It was a reminder not to underestimate Wilson, however lazy and prejudiced he might be.
“I dislike Mr Tennison.”
“Because?”
Alfie didn’t want to tell the sergeant about the crash. “I just don’t like his type. You know, rich, over-privileged.”
“I wouldn’t have thought money would be a problem, what with you having a bob or two yourself,” said Wilson sarcastically. “And as for the over-privileged, you’re friendly enough with Mr Savile, and I understand your friend Mr de Linnet is here too.”
The Bunburry broadcasting service was working well.
“Do you know what I think?” the sergeant went on. “Mr Tennison’s known for sailing close to the wind in his business dealings. You’re a businessman. At least you were until – what would you say? - you took early retirement. I think you were involved in a business deal with Mr Tennison that turned sour.”
Alfie tried to look crestfallen and embarrassed. “Whatever the reason, I wanted to needle Mr Tennison. And I think it may have led to an argument between Mr Tennison and his wife.”
Wilson had a look of smug satisfaction on his face at having made a correct deduction. “That’s very helpful, Mr McAlister. Thank you for your frankness. And you’ve only confirmed what I already knew. In a case like this, it’s always the husband.”
He stood up and went into the library, not objecting when Alfie followed him.
The waitress was on a sofa at the far end of the room, clutching a brandy balloon, with Oscar at her side. Charlie Tennison was slumped on the sofa nearest the door, his head in his hands.
David, who was sitting by him, stood up when Alfie and the sergeant came in.
“This is your house, sir?” asked Wilson, despite knowing the answer perfectly well. He had the gift of making the honorific sound like an insult.
“It is,” said David quietly.
“And would you like to tell me what you know about the incident?”
Alfie looked to see what Charlie Tennison made of the question. The man seemed totally oblivious to what was going on. In shock, ridden with guilt, or trying to concoct a defence?
“I was out on the terrace, watching a firework display with the guests – most of them, at any rate. I heard a woman scream and came back into the house. Mr de Linnet and Mr McAlister were with me. I found Lucy – Ms Higgins – in a state of distress.”
“I’m Ms Higgins,” called Lucy from the other end of the room.
“I’ll get to you in a minute,” snapped Wilson. “Go on, Mr Savile.”
“Mr Tennison was at the bottom of the stairs with his wife.”
“Were they arguing? Fighting?” asked the sergeant.
“No.” David’s voice was slightly unsteady. “They were as you found them when you arrived. Isobel was lying on the floor and Charlie was holding her.”
“Was she alive?”
“I don’t know – I don’t think so – I didn’t know what had happened, I thought she might have fainted, and then I saw the blood.” His voice tailed off, and he closed his eyes as though trying blot the scene out.
Wilson shot him a look of derision, then sauntered down the long room towards an apprehensive Lucy. “What were you doing in the hall?” he asked.
She quailed, glancing nervously at David Savile. “I know I should have used the staff corridor, but all the casuals were finishing up, and I thought I’d be able to pick up my things quicker if I used the guest route.”
“And what did you see?” the sergeant asked.
“Same as the others,” she said. “I came round the corner and I saw the lady lying on the ground, and the gentleman over there trying to pick her up.”
Charlie Tennison seemed to grasp for the first time that they were talking about him. He stared across the room in a bewildered way.
Lucy gulped. “I could see the lady’s head was all blood and she wasn’t moving. I knew she was dead. I’ve never seen a dead person before. I just screamed, I couldn’t help it.” She gulped again. “Can I go? I’m supposed to be getting a lift back to Bunburry with the others.”
“I may need to talk to you again,” said Wilson. “Make sure I can get hold of you.”
Lucy fled through a door among the shelves of books which presumably led to the staff corridor.
Sergeant Wilson approached Charlie Tennison. “And would you like to tell me your version of events, sir?”
Tennison looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“I’d like to understand what you were doing in the hallway with your wife.”
Tennison frowned as though he was trying to dredge up a distant memory. “I – I had come into the library to watch the fireworks.”
“Really, sir? A strange decision, since you would get a much better view outside, wouldn’t you?”
“It was cold,” said Tennison. “And this is where Dave keeps his whisky.”
“You fancied a drink, sir. Yes, that sounds more likely. Would you say you were impaired by alcohol?”
“What? No.”
Alfie hadn’t noticed how much Charlie Tennison had been drinking, but he had seen no sign of him being drunk.
“So, you were fully in control of your faculties. Thank you, sir. And was your wife with you in the library?”
At the mention of Isobel, Tennison’s jaw sagged, and he began to cry in long shuddering sobs. “I – she had left to get her coat – I came out of the library, and she was lying there. I ran to her and – I could see it was bad.” His voice tailed off.
“You were angry because there was something going on between her and Mr McAlister here.”
Tennison registered that Alfie was sitting nearby. His mouth contorted. “He was all over her,” he rasped. “They didn’t even care that I was at the same table. They were laughing.”
Sergeant Wilson nodded. “Yes, that would make any man angry. Perfectly understandable. So what did you do? Did you hit her?”
“Hit her?” Charlie Tennison repeated in stupefaction. “Of course not. I would never hit Isobel.”
“Did you push her? Was she struggling? Why did she fall?”
“I don’t know why she fell – I just found her there – oh, Isobel! I’m so sorry!”
“Charles Tennison,” said Sergeant Wilson. “You are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of your wife. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“Murder?” It was a cry of agony. “Why would I murder her? I love her!”
“Even when you saw her all over Mr McAlister? That must have been very difficult for you.”
“She was paying me back,” Tennison burst out. “That’s what she does. You think I don’t know what she’s like? Of course I know. I’m so sorry I hurt her.”
“All right, Mr Tennison, it’s time for us to go,” said Sergeant Wilson, taking a pair of handcuffs from his belt.
“Is that necessary?” David Savile protested.
Wilson shrugged. “I’m on my own.”
Tennison accepted the handcuffs meekly enough but turned pleadingly to his cousin. “Dave?”
“Don’t worry, Charlie.” David Savile was trying to sound reassuring, but his voice was shaking. “I’ll get on to the lawyers right away. We’ll get this sorted out. Sergeant, may I come to the car with you? It’s all right, I’m not going to attempt a rescue. Everything will be done through the proper channels.”
Alfie watched them go. He should be rejoicing, seeing the downfall of the man who had killed his grandparents. But it didn’t feel like sweet revenge. Charlie’s Tennison’s grief only reminded him of what he had gone through when he heard Vivian was dead.
He tried to be glad that Charlie of the charmed life was suffering at last, belated retribution for the lives he had taken, but he couldn’t. Tennison being led away in handcuffs was a diminished, broken figure. Alfie couldn’t forgive him, but neither could he hate him.
“Come on,” said Oscar. “Let’s go back to the room.”
“I need to talk to Betty,” said Alfie. “I need to explain. I said things to her – anyway, we need to tell her about all this. She must be wondering what’s going on.”
They went into the hallway to find the forensic team at work in their protective clothing, the staircase and virtually all of the vast marble hall cordoned off. They were directed round behind the staircase to an insignificant door, which proved to lead to the staff staircase, narrow and uncarpeted.
They found their way back to the bedrooms, and Alfie knocked gently on Betty’s door. There was no reply. He knocked again, more firmly.
“She’s either asleep, or playing hard to get,” said Oscar.
“Or perhaps she’s still downstairs,” said Alfie.
Uncertainly, he tried the door handle. A bedside light cast a faint glow over the room. The bed hadn’t been slept in. In fact, there was no sign that anyone had been in the room at all. There were no clothes or shoes anywhere, nothing on the dressing table, and Betty’s woven holdall was nowhere to be seen.