CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Inspector didn’t have far to look for Murray. He found him standing in the shade of a large horse chestnut tree in the west garden, furiously smoking a cigarette. When he saw the Inspector approach, the younger man scowled at him horribly.

Nor did the Inspector’s first words do anything to modify his basilisk stare. ‘I take it that you were unaware that you had been cut off without a penny, sir?’ the Inspector remarked pleasantly.

Murray snorted, which made him cough and then throw down his cigarette and stamp it out viciously, taking pleasure in grinding the item into shreds under his heel. ‘Couldn’t wait to kick me when I’m down, eh? Hoping I might let something slip? I’m not a fool, Inspector,’ Murray snapped. ‘I know full well that you and everyone else have me down as suspect number one in my aunt’s death. And this will business only makes it worse. Can’t wait to slap on the irons, hmm?’ he accused, eyeing the Inspector with disdain.

‘Well, sir, if you look at it from my point of view,’ Gorringe began mildly, but Murray wasn’t in any mood to see things from any point of view other than his own.

‘Oh, be damned to you!’ Murray exploded. ‘Well, for your information, I happen to have an alibi for my aunt’s murder. Now then! What do you say to that?’

The Inspector, much surprised, said that he found that information very interesting indeed, and that he’d be obliged if Murray would tell him more.

Murray, lighting another cigarette, sighed heavily and then shrugged. ‘Oh, what’s the point. You wouldn’t believe me anyway. In fact, with the way my luck’s going, it would only make things worse.’ For, try as he might, he couldn’t help but believe that were he to confess that he and Doreen had in fact spent almost the entire night in his room, the Inspector would only be more suspicious of him still, and say that he and his paramour had connived to commit the crime together.

‘Oh, just forget it,’ he snarled, and rudely turned his back. And with a thoughtful look, Inspector Gorringe duly drifted away.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the garden, it was, of course, Reggie who inevitably spilled the beans to Arbie and Val.

Having spotted Cora and Reggie coming out into the garden, Val very nonchalantly called out a greeting and, much to Arbie’s embarrassment, all but invited herself, and perforce him, to join the elder couple under the shade of the tree where they were now sitting, conversing quietly.

After a short but polite period, Cora had excused herself with a vague murmur about having letters to write, and thus stripped of what would surely have been her restraining presence, Reggie let himself be delicately and expertly grilled by the vicar’s daughter.

In truth, Arbie couldn’t blame the fellow for being bamboozled by his companion. In honour of the weather, even he had to admit that Val was looking particularly fetching today. In a becoming white cotton frock and with her long blonde hair swept away from her face and tied back with a mint-green-and-white ribbon, she looked the quintessential English rose.

Reggie, obviously, was sheer putty in her hands. In no time at all, the old boy was regaling them with the news that Phyllis, not Murray, had inherited Amy’s fortune, and giving them a scene-by-scene account of the drama in the library.

‘And so, at that point, we lit out and headed for the hills,’ Reggie concluded. ‘Well, one doesn’t want to be de trop when a family fight is about to break out, does one? And poor Murray did look fit to blow his top like a volcano.’

‘I can imagine,’ Arbie said dryly. He wasn’t sure why it was, but the misfortunes of others always seemed to buck people up, and for the life of him, he couldn’t feel the littlest bit sorry for the imperious Murray. And yet … he was worried.

For years, Murray had been firmly and openly ensconced as the main heir, much to nearly everyone’s mutual satisfaction. And in Amy’s original will, he was confident that Phyllis would have been adequately provided for by her aunt, so even she would probably have had no real cause for complaint at being only a residuary legatee. And yet, immediately after her fall down the stairs, Amy changed her will.

The inference was obvious, of course. She had done so because she suspected Murray of playing the ‘ghostly’ tricks on her. And, presumably, held him responsible for her ‘accident’ as well, and hadn’t found that very funny at all.

All that, Arbie could follow perfectly well.

But what was bothering Arbie was – why would Murray, who had only to wait for his Aunt to shuffle off the mortal coil and all that, suddenly get it into his head to make her life a misery? The accident on the stairs had been carefully set up only to hurt her, not to kill her. It made no sense – if he was rumbled, there was bound to be a price to pay. Surely he’d be careful to keep on her good side?

Which meant … Well, the inescapable conclusion was that he hadn’t been responsible for either his aunt’s tumble on the stairs, or the pranks about the ghost at all. Which meant … Well, again, it only left Phyllis, didn’t it? She was the one who ended up with all the lolly, after all.

‘Oh dear, there he goes,’ Reggie said unhappily, interrupting Arbie’s mental sleuthing, and he looked across the garden just in time to see Murray striding angrily away down the drive. ‘I daresay he’s in a frightful rage. I do hope he’s going back to town. The atmosphere in the house will be unbearable if he stays on. He won’t do that, though, will he?’ Reggie asked nervously.

‘Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to,’ Val surmised reassuringly. ‘I wonder if …’

But before she could finish whatever she’d been about to say, the French doors opened and Inspector Gorringe stepped out. Reggie took one look at him and turned rather pale.

‘I think, you know, I’d best get back to my studio,’ he said hastily. ‘I’m afraid the sight of the Inspector gives me the jitters nowadays. Ever since he came and took away my photography chemicals for testing, I’ve been feeling awful. I can only hope and pray that whatever killed poor Amy it wasn’t anything that I brought with me.’

‘Oh, Reggie, poor you!’ Val said, reaching over and patting his hand. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t. And even if it was, you mustn’t blame yourself. Anyone could have taken it. Nobody locks their doors or things in Maybury – why would we?’

Reggie nodded and managed a rather wan smile, but when the Inspector, looking around, spotted them in the shade of the tree and started to come over, the older man got to his feet and all but bolted.

Arbie and Val watched him go, giving each other amused glances mixed with a little concern, then girded their loins as the majesty of the law sat himself down on the garden chair nearest their bench and stuck out his size twelve feet, encased in well-buffed brown leather, and regarded them thoughtfully.

‘Mr Swift. Miss Coulton-James,’ the Inspector said, with just a hint of a smile. ‘Just passing, were you?’

Val flushed guiltily. She couldn’t help it. She was the vicar’s daughter.

Arbie merely sighed. Unlike Val, he’d been raised by his uncle, whose respect for authority – any authority – was virtually nil. ‘As a matter of fact, I was hoping to have a word with Miss Thomas,’ he lied amiably. ‘You may have heard – the family have asked me to continue my investigation into the hauntings here? For my next book?’

‘Ah yes. The family ghost,’ Gorringe said thoughtfully, and with a certain gravitas that made Arbie look at him more closely. Ever since Murray Phelps’s intriguing words to his cousin after the reading of the will, the Phelps’s family ghost had become of much more interest to him.

When it had first been mentioned, he’d thought Miss Phelps’s obsession with her dead ancestor had been just that – nothing more than one of those harmless bees-in-the-bonnet that ladies sometimes fell prey to. But until now, he’d never seriously considered the fact that it could have anything to do with her murder.

You didn’t expect a spook to go about administering cyanide, after all.

‘Whilst I have you here, Mr Swift, I was wondering,’ he began urbanely, ‘have you come to any conclusions about the ghostly blacksmith? I mean, do you think he’s, er, genuine, so to speak?’

Arbie regarded the older man with a disapproving eye. ‘Oh, do come off it, Inspector,’ he said firmly, unknowingly impressing Val for perhaps the first time in his life. ‘You no more believe in ghosts than you do in fairies at the end of the garden.’

Gorringe smiled. He couldn’t help it – he was beginning to like this young chap. ‘It’s not a question of what I believe, sir. It’s a question of what Miss Amy Phelps believed. Or any member of her inner circle, come to that.’

At the mention of the dead woman, Arbie’s challenging gaze instantly faltered. When all was said and done, her last weeks hadn’t been the happiest, and that, really, was quite horrible, when one thought about it. And certainly nothing to be taken lightly. ‘Yes. Yes, I know. I was wondering much the same thing just now. It doesn’t make sense, does it?’

The Inspector’s eyes sharpened. ‘What doesn’t?’

‘That Murray was behind the pranks and ghostly goings-on and whatnot. Even though I think Miss Phelps was convinced that he was,’ Arbie elaborated.

‘And do you have a better candidate?’ Gorringe asked, genuinely curious.

‘Well, yes, since you ask, given recent—’

‘Oh, Arbie, look there’s Phyllis,’ Val interrupted him swiftly and rather too loudly, correctly guessing that the silly muggins was just about to admit they already knew that Murray had been cut out of the will, and that the niece had got the lion’s share instead. And the last thing she wanted was for the police to call on her father, demanding that he keep his daughter’s nose out of police affairs! ‘Didn’t you want to ask her about the ghost-watch tonight?’ she said, glaring a warning at him.

Arbie, who’d had no such intention, blinked back at her. Then he looked over his shoulder and saw that Phyllis was indeed standing on the terrace just outside the open French windows and looking over at them uncertainly.

‘Well, I have no objections to you carrying on with your, er, ghost-watches, sir,’ Gorringe said magnanimously. ‘My men have finished taking fingerprints and what have you.’ And much good that had done them. The housekeeper had thoroughly cleaned the lady’s bedroom before they knew it was a case of murder. And nothing suspicious so far had been found in the house at all. No signs of a break-in, no signs of a small bottle that might have contained poison in the rubbish bins. Nothing, in fact, of any use to him at all.

Ah well, a policeman’s lot, and all that. He rose to go, but then added mildly, ‘Oh, and if you should run into the ghostly blacksmith during your tour of duty, sir, you might like to ask him from me, just what the blazes he thinks he’s been playing at, will you?’

‘I shall make a point of it, Inspector,’ Arbie responded, totally unfazed. ‘And if Miss Phelps decides to put in an appearance as well, I’ll be sure to pass on your best wishes to her too.’

At this neat little parry, Gorringe grinned widely and, nodding at the pretty girl who was again looking admiringly at her handsome young companion, wished them both a good day.

‘I say, Arbie old boy, that was a rather splendid little sally,’ Val was forced to admit. ‘That’ll teach the Inspector to mind his p’s and q’s from now on. But what was that about there being a better candidate? I didn’t quite follow it,’ she admitted plaintively.

Arbie shrugged. ‘I was just about to say that the reason that Miss Thomas is now a rich woman is because Miss Phelps suspected Murray was behind all her woes. Which has worked out very conveniently for our Phyllis, hasn’t it?’

Val’s eyes widened as she realised what he was getting at.

‘You mean … you think she’s the one behind the ghostly goings-on and whatnot?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing as she thought about it. ‘You know, that would make sense, in a way, wouldn’t it?’ she continued, in growing excitement. ‘She invents the ghost to rile Miss Phelps up, and then drops hints or something that Murray must be behind it all. That way, she undermines him in her aunt’s eye.’

‘I don’t think she’d have needed to do much hint-dropping,’ Arbie said thoughtfully. ‘I imagine Murray was already in her bad books over his flirting with the maid and all that. The whole village knew he was gadding about with Doreen.’

Val nodded. ‘Yes, that’s true,’ she said. ‘But, Arbie, if Phyllis did all that, then does that mean she was responsible for her aunt’s death?’

Arbie shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, logically, I suppose it could follow. Although she might only have done it to get her cousin disinherited. She might not have thought further ahead than that.’

Val eyed him with a disapproving eye. ‘But that’s a bit lame, old thing, isn’t it?’ she said staunchly. She knew how much Arbie hated to confront the nastier side of life, and she was determined not to let him get away with it now. ‘Suppose Murray weaselled his way back into his aunt’s good books? She’d be back where she started. You know it only makes sense, if Phyllis is behind the ghost, that she must be behind the murder as well. And don’t forget, she knew her aunt had been to her solicitors to make a change in her will. She’d have no choice but to strike while the iron was hot.’

Then she swallowed hard as her eyes drifted past his and to a spot over his shoulder and she went a bit pale. ‘Oh, Arbie!’ she said, clutching his arm as most of her brave face crumpled away. ‘She’s beckoning us over. What should we do?’ she hissed.

Arbie looked across the lawns and saw indeed that the new mistress of the Old Forge was waving at them. ‘We go and say hello, old thing, what else?’ he said amiably. And only wished that he actually felt as nonchalant and sanguine about it as he had managed to sound.

And so he and Val set off across the lawn, each of them unsure what, exactly, you were supposed to say to a woman who’d just inherited the fortune of a murder victim, and whom you now suspected of having committed the crime.

Phyllis looked pale but composed as they met by the French doors. ‘Hello again. My word, isn’t it hot?’ she said, instantly setting the tone. ‘Won’t you please come in and have some lemonade?’

Arbie and Val accepted gratefully, and once seated, accepted the iced liquid. Arbie tried not to think about poison at all, but still almost choked on his first mouthful. Val and Phyllis sipped their own libations with apparent enjoyment.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Thomas,’ Arbie began timidly, ‘but I was wondering if you still wanted me to, er, see if there are any further disturbances here in the house? I can, of course, forget all about it if you would prefer?’ he proffered hopefully.

‘Oh no, that’s perfectly all right,’ she said, dashing his last chance to duck out from under. ‘In fact, you can begin right away if you like. Murray has left and gone back to his own place, and I’m catching the next train myself. I have so many arrangements to make. It won’t take me long to pack. So apart from Mrs Brockhurst, the house will be empty, which should be ideal for your experiments, I imagine? I have to say, the villagers would be rather thrilled if dear old Maybury-in-the-Marsh made it into the pages of your next book, and I’d hate to be the one accused of disappointing them.’

Here, she looked at him pointedly. ‘Of course, you will only be concerned with, er, Wilbur Phelps. The blacksmith. And not … I mean – oh, this wretched business about Aunty Amy! It’s got me all in such a muddle. I don’t know how to say this without sounding … Oh dear, you won’t …’ She trailed off helplessly.

Arbie, able to translate this garbled appeal with ease, looked equally as horrified as his hostess. ‘Oh no! Of course, I wouldn’t dream of mentioning … I mean, there’ll be nothing salacious or scandalous about the next volume, I assure you. Just the usual mix of holiday guide and ancient ghosts and legends, that sort of thing,’ he muttered. ‘Current events won’t be mentioned at all,’ he promised rashly.

And then added mentally – well, not by me at any rate. He had no idea what atrocities his publicity-hungry publishers might get up to in order to ensure more huge sales.

‘Oh, then I’m sure that will be all right then,’ Phyllis said, looking vastly relieved. ‘In that case, perhaps you’d like to seek out Mrs Brockhurst in the kitchen and let her know you’ll be here tonight?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Arbie agreed, shooting to his feet as Phyllis also rose. He wondered if the lady of the house knew that her newly acquired servant was also eager for him to continue his activities.

‘Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a rather taxing day, and I must get on,’ Phyllis said somewhat wearily.

Val and Arbie watched her leave in relieved silence, then went to the kitchen to confirm their itinerary with the housekeeper.

Once outside, Arbie moodily kicked a stone out of his way as they made their way back to Church Lane, and their respective dwellings. ‘You know, Val, the first thing I want to do when we get back to that house is have a good snoop in Amy Phelps’s bedroom.’

‘Arbie!’ Val said, pretending to be shocked.

‘Well, you don’t have to come with me, you know,’ he pointed out, rather wickedly.

‘Oh, wild horses wouldn’t stop me from being there,’ Val informed him promptly.

‘No, I don’t suppose they would,’ he concurred sadly.

When Arbie returned home, he took a detour into his uncle’s studio. He wanted to borrow the electric battery lamp that Uncle had invented last year. It looked like an old-fashioned traditional glass lantern but produced an almost blindingly bright light when you flicked a hidden switch. Uncle had done something clever to the bulb he invented to go with it, but what exactly this was had, naturally, gone right over Arbie’s head. Alas, to create this luminous device, Uncle had had to construct a large battery that he concealed in its base, which made it too heavy to be of interest to manufacturers. People, they had pointed out politely, wanted a portable lamp to be just that – portable. Not something that only Atlas could successfully carry around for any length of time. Therefore, it had remained to date, a single prototype, but it was just what Arbie needed right now.

Although he wouldn’t admit it to Val for all the world, having a light that he could rely on, and that would illuminate every corner of a room – and probably for miles around outside whilst it was at it – was just what he wanted. Hunting a ghost was one thing – but hunting a killer was something else. And Arbie didn’t fancy being in the inadequately lit Old Forge without knowing that he could throw a light on at any time he chose. And if he gave himself a hernia carrying the wretched thing, well, so be it!

He found the studio unlocked but empty, which meant that his relative was somewhere nearby. He was tempted to yell for him and ask where the lamp was, because the studio was not the easiest place in the world to find anything. But as he looked around, he spied the pyramidical black iron top of the lantern peeking out from a pile of what looked like former automotive parts. He was just heading for it when he glanced up and saw, on his relative’s painting platform, a canvas on an easel which literally stopped him in his tracks.

Even from that distance the quality of it hit him squarely in the eye, and its form was so well-known that he abruptly detoured from his mission, headed up the few steps needed to put him on the dais and gravitated towards the glowing siren of painted horseflesh. A Stubbs! He was sure of it. Who hadn’t, at some point, seen one of these beauties either in the flesh in a gallery, or reproduced in the pages of a magazine? He moved reverently closer and eyed the painted equine with breath that caught in his throat. What a beauty – an absolute stunner.

He leaned closer and bathed in it. Then he took a step back and frowned. Had Uncle hit the jackpot with one of his inventions and hadn’t told him? Otherwise, how could he afford to buy such a gem as this? And why on earth was it in here and not in a bank vault where it belonged?

Then he saw the second easel next to it, covered with a cloth, his uncle’s paints and brushes on the table next to it. With his heartbeat doing a rapid Charleston, he moved very reluctantly over to it and gingerly lifted up one corner, taking a tiny peek underneath. And saw four, now very familiar, fetlocks looking back at him. Hastily he let the cloth drop and backed away, swallowing hard.

Feeling just a bit light-headed, he went back down to collect his lamp, grunting a little at the weight of it as he hefted it outside. But the fine sweat that had broken out on his forehead and on the palms of his hands had nothing to do with his physical labours.

Had his uncle finally lost his mind? If he was caught forging a Stubbs, it would mean utter disaster. And with an Inspector like Gorringe lurking around the village … What was the silly old reprobate thinking?

As if his nerves weren’t stretched enough as it was!