Murder By Committee Page 12

  Roy certainly seemed to admire her. It might be because her husband was away for the weekend and she knew she wouldn't be shouted at and belittled, but there was even a little colour in her cheeks.

  Well, bully for Roy.

  Jean was sour. ‘You'd best take care, Ellie, or your fine beau will be looking elsewhere.’

  Ellie blushed, and was furious with herself for doing so. ‘He's not my beau. He's my husband's cousin, we're good friends, and poor Felicity could do with a few hours away from a difficult husband.’

  ‘Hah!’ said Jean, meaning that she didn't believe a word of it. ‘And those tables still need clearing.’

  Ellie went to clear the tables, trying to convince herself that Chris Talbot would be pleased with the way things had turned out. Roy was handsome and charming. Roy was delightfully devoted to his mother. Roy was a good architect, who was perfectly capable of supporting a wife and child, if he could find the right person to marry.

  True, Roy had many times asked Ellie to marry him; but Ellie had never taken him seriously, and had always told him so. Perhaps that had been a mistake?

  Nonsense. She'd long ago decided that she didn't want to marry Roy and nothing she'd seen of him had inclined her to change her mind. He was self-centred and lacking in empathy. He'd been married to a pretty flibbertigibbet years ago, and didn't want to go down that line again. He did yearn for domestic bliss, but didn't realize it might entail putting his own wishes second to someone else's.

  He wasn't good with the small print of contracts and needed a sharp eye overseeing his finances, he was perhaps spending too much time with his cronies at the golf club. And yet, by and large, taking everything into consideration, he might well make a good husband and father to the right woman.

  But to tangle with Felicity? His bête noire's despised wife? It was asking for trouble.

  Rose popped her head around the door. ‘Are you worked off your feet, Ellie? Oh, I see you are. I've brought dear Miss Quicke over for a look-see. She wanted to inspect the new hall in action, so to speak. She's catching up with Roy at the moment.’

  Jean opened her mouth. ‘Well, if you're at a loose end, we could certainly do with some help in here.’

  Rose winked at Ellie and faded from the scene.

  Ellie closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the confrontation that might even now be taking place over Roy's body. One elderly lady, who'd never been married, could never have been described as a beauty and who had a bad hip, versus youth and some beauty. Ouch. But, come to think of it, Ellie's money would be on the older lady.

  Mrs Dawes came surging in. ‘Isn't anyone coming round to take orders from the stallholders for lunch? And who's that blonde that Roy's squiring round? Anyone we know?’

  ‘It's Lady Kingsley,’ said Ellie. ‘He knows her through his work. Her dog has just died, and she was at a loose end. Perhaps we can get her on the bric-a-brac stall this afternoon?’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ said Jean, giving a twist to the - metaphorical - blade she'd dug into Ellie's back. ‘That one's got her claws firmly in, take my word for it.’

  ‘Really!’ snapped Mrs Dawes, who detested Jean. ‘Well, if you've quite finished gossiping, perhaps you'd take my order for lunch. A ploughman's would do, with home-made soup. I assume you do have some home-made soup, and not that gruel made from a packet?’

  Patches of red showed up on Jean's cheeks. ‘A ploughman's, and some tomato soup. Right. Ellie will bring it out to you when she's finished those dishes.’

  And, thought Ellie, Roy's a good twenty years older than her. Which makes me about twenty years older than her too. Ouch. Oh dear, I am being so stupid. What does it matter if he's interested in someone else? I should be cheering him on.

  ‘Whose mobile phone is that?’ Jean screeched so hard that Ellie almost dropped the tray she was carrying. Was it hers? Yes, it was.

  Another problem. Balancing the tray on one hand, she fished out her mobile and answered it.

  It was Kate. ‘Ellie, listen: I don't know what the police want with you, but they've been round here - the builders have turned up, by the way, arguing with the cleaners about who's got priority in the conservatory - anyway, Armand told the police you weren't here and they're coming over to the church hall to-’

  ‘Mrs Quicke? Is she here?’ A youngish, bulky man who had ‘police' written all over him. One she hadn't seen before. Accompanied by a young policewoman almost as bulky as her partner.

  ‘Now what?’ said Jean, arms akimbo.

  The policeman addressed Jean. ‘Mrs Quicke? May we have a moment?’

  ‘What?’

  There were about twenty people crammed into the small room, having early lunches or coffees or whatever, and they all turned round to see what was happening. Maggie looked at Ellie and signalled with her eyebrows towards the back door. Maggie evidently thought Ellie would like to make her escape that way.

  ‘Er, no,’ said Ellie. ‘I'm Mrs Quicke. But as you can see …’

  ‘We are rather busy, in case you hadn't noticed!’ said Jean. Jean wasn't a large woman, but as she advanced on the policeman, he quailed. Ellie was amused and alarmed by turn. What had gone wrong? Diana! No, perhaps little Frank had met with an accident, or …

  She took off her apron. ‘May I see your identification, please?’

  The policeman disconnected from Jean's basilisk gaze, and held up a shield.

  ‘DS Robertson.’ His mate produced another badge. ‘DC Smith. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  Tum-Tum appeared, reducing everything to normal. ‘A problem, is there? Ellie, you've not been caught drunk in the street again, have you?’ As Ellie hardly touched liquor - except for the odd glass of sherry - this sally was greeted with relieved laughter by everyone except Ellie and the police.

  Ellie was still anxious. ‘Nobody's dead or anything, are they?’ ‘No, no. Just a quiet word, if we may.’

  Tum-Tum opened the back door which led from the kitchens on to the garden and waved them towards the vicarage. ‘Use my study. Just don't disturb anything on my desk, right? Ellie, do you need anything?’

  Did he mean she ought to be asking for her solicitor?

  She shook her head. ‘It's probably about the burglar - if that is what he was - and I suppose I ought to have reported the silent calls he made in the night. If it was him. It probably wasn't. I'm sorry about that.’ She looked up at the policeman, who had pale grey eyes that signalled intelligence.

  He was a ferrety-faced man, a little like Armand in that he had the same type of golden red hair, matched to skin reddened and not browned by the sun. Robertson sounded Scots. His companion looked stolid. She had acne, poor thing.

  Ellie threaded her way through the back quarters of the vicarage to the room which Tum-Tum used as his study, overlooking the drive. Like all the other rooms here, it had a ceiling almost higher than the room was wide. Faded brown curtains matched faded carpet - brought from some larger room, to judge by the way the pattern was cut short at the edges. The furniture consisted of a few large, shabby pieces and a host of books. Surprisingly pretty watercolours of birds and flowers livened the walls.

  Ellie didn't take the vicar's chair, and neither did the police. They sat rather awkwardly side by side on an ancient horsehair settee, while Ellie took a single chair from its place by the wall.

  It appeared that DS Robertson was going to do the questioning. ‘Now, Mrs Quicke, can you account for your movements yesterday?’

  That was a surprise. ‘Well, I suppose so. I was up in town in the morning, then … What is all this? You haven't called about my break-in, have you? You're not local. So …’

  ‘Your local nick has been investigating a break-in at your place? What time was this?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon, about half past four. A man tried to-’

  ‘You weren't there at the time?’

  ‘Well, no. I was on my way back from-’

  ‘You know a Mr Talbot?’

 
Ellie nodded. ‘Yes, but-’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I don't understand what-’

  ‘How did you come to know him? Were you employed by him in one of his companies, perhaps?’

  Ellie gaped. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘You knew where he lived, of course.’

  ‘No, I'm afraid I-’

  ‘You knew his son, Julian, though.’

  ‘No, though I heard that-’

  ‘Mrs Quicke, we know what happened. You were seen. The number of your car was noted down by a passer-by. We have information that you knocked that boy down and drove off without bothering to get out of the car, or to check how badly he was hurt!’

  Ten

  Ellie opened and closed her mouth.

  Blinked.

  ‘I could pinch myself to see if I was awake, but I think on the whole I'd prefer to pinch you. I have never heard such nonsense in my life! I am so angry I could … I would like to …! If I weren't so …! Heavens above! Where did you get that story from? No. Don't say anything. And don't you dare interrupt me again, do you hear?’

  She wanted to smash something. Someone.

  This is what came of trying to help someone in distress.

  Ah.

  A thought. A nasty little thought that grew and grew in her mind.

  She said, ‘What a very clever little man it is, then! This story - this fantasy of yours - it came straight from the rhinoceros's mouth, didn't it? No, wait a bit. He wouldn't risk bringing his own name into it. It would have been either an anonymous letter, or better still, he'd have got someone to ring up and accuse me of attempted murder. Am I right?’

  DS Robertson looked wooden. ‘Let's hear your story, then.’

  Ellie fluffed out her hair, thinking hard. ‘Well! I hope you've got the message properly recorded, because I'd like to hear it. I wonder, would he use Marco for this?’

  ‘Marco who?’

  ‘I said, don't interrupt! No, I don't think he'd have used Marco. But he's got this other man working for him. Now, what's his name? Chris Talbot did tell me.’

  ‘Talbot. You admit you know him?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Martine something. Martins? No, Martinez. I'm told he “looks like a snake and thinks like one, too”. It would be him, probably. And no, I've never met him and I don't know what his voice sounds like. Very clever of you, Sir Arthur.’

  ‘Sir Arthur who?’ The man sounded genuinely puzzled.

  Ellie felt sorry for him. A little. ‘Look, I know most people can drive, but I can't. I can't even wobble about on a bicycle. Ask our vicar. Ask anyone. Now, I think what we had better do is have a bite to eat - I can get someone to bring something over from the kitchen - and I'll tell you everything I know. Then you can fill me in on what's been happening your end. All right?’

  ‘I don't think that-’

  ‘No, I realize you don't think, but that's only because you haven't enough data to go on yet. I'm not sure that I fully understand all the ins and outs of this affair, but at least I'm further on than you. Now, would a ploughman's lunch do you? Would you like some soup? I'm afraid it's out of a packet.’

  The policewoman stirred for the first time. Ellie had begun to wonder if she were deaf, or thinking about something more important. ‘Shall I check?’ DS Robertson nodded. The policewoman got out a mobile and left the room, speaking softly into it.

  There was a knock on the door, and Tum-Tum put his head round. ‘You all right, Ellie? Jean's foaming at the mouth.’

  ‘I'm fine. That is, I will be when you tell the police what type of car I drive.’

  He grinned. ‘Your vehicle of choice is a minicab.’

  DS Robertson looked resigned. ‘She doesn't drive?’

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  ‘Never owned a blue saloon, registration TOP something? Got a dicky exhaust?’

  ‘She's taken driving lessons now and again, but it's really not her scene. She has an account with a local minicab firm. What's she supposed to have done?’

  ‘What I have done,’ said Ellie, ‘is made an enemy of Sir Arthur Kingsley, as you very well know.’

  Tum-Tum's eyebrows peaked. ‘Ah. Was he responsible for smashing up your conservatory? Everyone's talking about it. What can I do to help?’

  ‘Help me to flee the country, without leaving a forwarding address. What I need at the moment,’ said Ellie forcefully, ‘is a good long holiday abroad.’

  ‘At Her Majesty's Pleasure?’ said the policeman, showing an unexpected streak of humour. ‘Now, can we have it from the top, please?’

  Ellie sighed. ‘Where to begin? And if you say, “at the beginning”, I'll … I'll …’

  The door burst open, and in strode Roy, with pink-cheeked Felicity glued to his heels. Felicity had not only spread her hair over her shoulders, but had also picked up a gauzy pink overblouse to wear … from one of the stalls? She was unrecognizable from the dispirited figure she'd cut the other evening. Ellie revised her opinion of Felicity. Away from her husband, it seemed she was capable of holding her own in the world.

  Roy was half amused, and half annoyed. ‘Ellie, you're needed in six different places. Jean's sending people out to look for you, and what's more, Stewart's arrived and is asking for you.’

  DC Smith slid back into the room, looking as bored with life as ever. She nodded to her partner, and muttered, ‘They traced the call to this telephone number.’ She held out her notebook so that he could see it.

  A small child was wailing outside, and the wails were getting louder.

  ‘Is she in there?’ Stewart hove into sight, carrying his son at arm's length. Everyone in the room recoiled. ‘He was sick in the car, all over everything, and worse!’ The ‘worse' was evident to everyone whose sense of smell was functioning.

  Frank was covered with vomit and snot, and still howling, helplessly, furiously.

  Stewart didn't look too dapper himself. ‘He's been appalling. He scratched Yazz hard enough to break the skin. Then he bit Maria, gorged himself on some food he'd been told not to touch, screamed when he was stopped, hit his granny Patel and threw up. When I removed him from the scene, he swore and kicked at me, so I put him in the car to bring him back, where he threw up again, and … I've got to clean myself up, clean the car, and get back.’

  ‘I hate you!’ screamed Frank, trying to hit his father, who was still holding him at arm's length. ‘I want my Mummy!’

  Felicity got behind Roy, while still clinging to his arm. ‘Whose is that brat? Don't let him come near me.’

  Roy was distracted, half wanting to shield Felicity, and half anxious for little Frank. ‘It's all right, Felicity. He's my nephew, sort of. Come along, Frank. Come to Uncle Roy.’ He tried to disengage himself from Felicity, who shrieked a ladylike little shriek and clung on.

  Frank gulped, red-faced, and heaved as if to vomit again.

  Ellie wished she'd kept her apron on, but made a heroic gesture. ‘Come to Granny, then.’

  Tum-Tum was quicker. He picked Frank up and held him at arm's length. ‘Let's get him cleaned up, shall we?’

  ‘It's my job,’ said Ellie. ‘Only, Jean will kill me if I don't get back to the kitchen.’

  The police looked amused - even the blank-faced policewoman's wooden expression momentarily relaxed - but everyone else took this seriously.

  Roy said, ‘That's true.’ He looked at Felicity. ‘You wouldn't sacrifice an hour of your time to help out in the kitchen, would you?’

  ‘Me?’ Felicity was undecided. Clearly she didn't want to spend the next hour washing up dishes, but she did want to impress Roy.

  Jean appeared in the doorway, her blood pressure clearly mounting to danger levels. ‘Ellie, I don't know what you think you're playing at but …’ She recoiled as Tum-Tum advanced on her holding Frank before him.

  ‘That's it, Jean,’ said Tum-Tum. ‘Hold the door open for me.’

  Jean stood aside to let him through, but caught Ellie b
y the arm when she would have followed. ‘You're not going anywhere, Ellie Quicke, until-’

  Ellie brushed her aside. ‘Try Felicity.’

  She heard DS Robertson saying, ‘Hold on, there!’ as she followed Tum-Tum up the imposing staircase to the high-ceilinged, echoing, dingy first floor. Tum-Tum elbowed open a door and dumped the little boy, still wailing and retching, in a large, claw-footed enamel bath, and turned on the shower.

  ‘Stand clear!’ he sang out, and turned the spray on to Frank.

  ‘His shoes,’ said Ellie. ‘Shall I take them off first?’

  ‘Ruined already,’ said Tum-Tum. ‘Here we go! Rub-a-dub-dub. Three men in a tub. Do you sing in the bath, Frank?’

  Frank hiccupped and tried to climb out of the bath. Tum-Tum gently but firmly pushed him back in. Frank began to howl again, but Tum-Tum sang louder and louder. ‘Rub-a-dub-dub … Three men in a tub … Rub-a-dub-dub … Here we go, little man. Soon be nice and clean again … Ellie, hold the spray for me, will you, while I strip him off.’

  Frank stopped howling, needing the air in his lungs for breathing purposes.

  Ellie held the shower head while Tum-Tum stripped off the little boy's clothes and lathered him, still protesting, with shampoo. ‘Rub-a-dub-dub … I used to do this with my old dog, and he never liked it either. But what has to be … has to be. Ellie, can you find me a large, clean towel from the linen cupboard over there? That's the ticket.’

  Frank was weeping now, but quietly.

  Ellie found a towel and held it ready while Tum-Tum inspected little Frank from head to toe, and pronounced him clean. Once wrapped in the towel, Tum-Tum lifted the boy out of the bath and stood him on a nearby stool. ‘Rub-a-dub-dub. That's the way to dry you, all over, between toes and fingers and into all the nooks and crannies. That's the ticket!’

  ‘R-r-r-r-!’ Frank was shivering. Ellie took over from Tum-Tum, towelling the little boy till his skin was pink.

  Something large loomed in the doorway. DS Robertson was not giving up easily.