Crunching up in his Saab onto the big circle of gravel at the front of Wyveridge Hall, Francis smiled to himself. This was more like the setting for a traditional murder mystery; the kind of old English country house that had battlemented towers, tall windows in elegant bays and inside probably still a library and billiard room, if not a length of lead piping or a revolver to hand.
The front door was eight feet of solid oak, complete with decorative brass studs, set inside a little arched porch. Francis let himself into a stone-flagged hallway area, where coats were piled on hooks and wellington and walking boots stood haphazardly by the wall. Beyond, through another, smaller oak door, was a central hall, dark with mahogany panels. On the left was the main staircase, with an elaborate wrought-iron banister, painted pale green under a polished wooden rail. At the far end, up against a faded tapestry of some classical scene (a half-naked maiden either being rescued or set upon by warriors) was a grand piano, its top still covered with a scattering of last night’s wine glasses. Francis walked through into a big drawing room, where French windows opened onto a gravel terrace. Beyond and below that was a croquet lawn surrounded by thick green hedges, embellished with the topiary Priya had mentioned – doves, dogs, rabbits, even a small, squat horse. On the far side was a ha-ha and beyond that open countryside.
There was no one around. A couple of half-burned logs in the fireplace indicated a fire, quite something for the end of July. There were more dirty glasses on the mantelpiece and a stale smell of alcohol and tobacco.
Francis heard a sound behind him and turned. It was a short, white-haired woman in pink overalls, carrying a dustpan and brush and a black plastic rubbish sack.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Morning, sir. I’m just going to get this room straight and then it’ll all be done for you.’
‘Oh no, I’m not staying here. I came out looking for a friend.’
‘They’re still in bed, most of them. They had one of their parties last night, as you see.’ She gave him a nervous smile. ‘I don’t know. Mr Ranjit is a very nice young gentleman, but they don’t half leave a mess for me to clear up in the morning. It’s lucky he’s such a good tipper, else I might have something to say about it to the boss.’
‘Who is the boss?’
‘Mr Delancey, sir.’
‘He lives here?’
‘Oh no. Mr Gerald lives in Berlin. That’s why the Hall is rented out. We get all sorts. Wedding parties, house parties, shooting parties, conferences, even, since they installed that wi-fi thingy.’
‘And how long have you worked here, if I may ask?’
‘Fifty-eight years, sir. I started as a parlour maid. Of course, Mr Digby, that’s Mr Gerald’s father, was the master in them days. We had a butler and a cook and a proper household.’
‘And you’re the last survivor?’
‘Me and Gunther, sir, yes. The German gardener. He came over in the war and never went back.’ Her lips pursed. ‘A prisoner,’ she whispered.
‘He must be getting on a bit now.’
‘Ninety-two. Still clips the hedges himself. Most of them, anyway. Now I’d better be getting on or I’ll never get finished. If any of them are up, sir, you’ll most likely find them in the kitchen. Through that door and along to the end.’
Francis was in luck. There was a smell of bacon wafting down the corridor and a couple of house guests already up and about. A skinny blonde, yellow dress over jeans, diaphanous blue scarf slung round her neck, was bent over a cafetière, making coffee. Up at the Aga was a young woman with a mane of dark hair and a Gibson Girl figure in a green and white floral tea dress. She was stirring scrambled eggs with a wooden spoon. A laptop was open on the side, with a little video camera plugged into it and a picture on the screen of partying youth (outside this very house, it looked like).
‘Good morning,’ said Francis.
‘Hiya,’ said the dark-haired girl, turning to reveal a pair of thoughtful hazel eyes. ‘Would you like some breakfast?’
‘No, no, I’m OK, thanks. I’ve eaten already.’
‘We’re having a quickie before we shoot. We’ve got tickets for Hilary Mantel at eleven.’
‘Right …’
She yawned extravagantly. ‘Sorry, bit of a late one last night. Then we’re going to see Stephen Appleby at one and the big attraction at three.’
‘Which is?’ Francis didn’t for a moment think she’d say, Francis Meadowes, the crime writer. She didn’t.
‘Bryce Peabody. Didn’t you see his piece in the Sentinel yesterday? Slagging off Dan Dickson?’
‘I did.’
‘And then there was, like, this big row between them at Dan’s talk.’
‘Which I witnessed.’
‘Wasn’t it great? So Grace and I are hoping that this afternoon is going to be the rematch. Dickson’s just the type to want to turn up and make a scene.’
‘I think that’s unlikely,’ said Francis.
‘Why?’ asked Grace, with just a touch of youthful scorn.
‘Because the talk won’t be taking place. Bryce Peabody was found dead in his hotel room at four o’clock this morning.’
This piece of information had the desired effect. Two mouths gaped open.
‘Oh my god!’ said the dark-haired girl; the wooden spoon stalled in the pan.
‘You’re joking,’ said Grace.
‘Sadly not.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nobody knows. It looked at first like it might have been a massive heart attack. But the police are out in force, so …’
‘Not … suicide?’
Francis shrugged and made a face.
‘Murder?’
‘All I can tell you is that the cops seem to be checking every angle. All the guests in the hotel are being asked to give statements, there are forensics people everywhere.’
‘Oh my god!’ the dark-haired girl repeated, looking sideways at her friend, her hand over her open mouth.
‘But he was out here last night,’ said Grace. ‘With his girlfriend. He seemed fine. Didn’t he, Fleur?’
‘Actually,’ Fleur replied, ‘he looked shattered. He was yawning his head off. Then Rory had a big go at him and he left the party.’
‘Rory being one of your fellow housemates?’
‘Yuh. Drug-crazed barrister cum wannabe novelist prat who’s staying out here.’ Grace looked round at the kitchen door, presumably in case the prat in question was about to make a sudden entry. ‘But no, you’re right, Bryce went home early. Because it was only after he’d gone that Priya had that huge row with Conal.’ She looked over at her friend. ‘We’d better scoff these eggs. I need to get into Mold right away. I’m going to have to forget Hilary Mantel. This is a real story.’
Fleur looked disappointed. ‘Won’t the Sentinel be covering it anyway? I mean, didn’t Bryce work for them?’
‘Yuh, but still … I need to be there.’
‘I was looking forward to Mantel. Conal said he was going.’
‘Then you’ll have him all to yourself, won’t you, darling.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Fleur, if I can get something the others can’t this could be a real break for me.’ She turned to Francis. ‘I don’t suppose you’re driving back into Mold now?’
‘I’m sorry, no. I was hoping to talk to your friend Conal.’
‘He’s probably asleep upstairs,’ said Fleur. ‘He’s not like a suspect or anything, is he?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware. Should he be?’
‘No,’ she said, with a little giggle. ‘It was just last night. After his row with Priya he shouted at everyone about how he was going to kill Bryce. Then he vanished.’
‘He was totalled, Fleur,’ said Grace.
‘But he really hates Bryce.’ Fleur turned back to Francis. ‘We drove down from London with him on Friday and he bent our ears about it for ages. I thought it was quite sweet.’
‘Like, er, how?’ said Grace.
‘Because he’s like this battle-hardened foreign correspondent type, doing these mad, dangerous expeditions round the West Bank and Somalia and places, and then he comes back to the UK and he’s really upset about his girlfriend.’
‘Wounded pride,’ said Grace.
‘You think?’
‘Definitely. Thought his little woman was there for him whatever he did and then was terribly piqued when he discovered she had a mind of her own.’
‘He was only away three months. She could have waited.’
‘Little Miss Devoted here would have done. She’s basically in training to be a Stepford wife.’
‘Ha ha, Grace.’
‘You said he was asleep upstairs,’ said Francis. ‘Does that mean you saw him again last night?’
‘This morning,’ said Fleur. ‘He reappeared right at the end of the party. We were all on the terrace as the sun came up.’
The door opened and a curly-haired, dishevelled, slightly chubby figure appeared. ‘Hi,’ he said, holding out a hand to Francis. ‘I’m Conal O’Hare. Who are you?’