Murder Takes a Turn Page 13

  ‘With a gun,’ Maria added.

  Annabelle stared at them. ‘A gun? What on earth …?’

  ‘I followed him and talked him round. He was threatening to shoot himself.’

  Annabelle stopped tinkering with the engine. ‘But why would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t think his audience with your father went very well,’ Langham explained. ‘Brought back old memories. The upshot was that he got loaded and threatened to blow his brains out.’

  ‘How is he now?’

  ‘Royce and Watkins kept an eye on him overnight. I haven’t seen him this morning.’

  ‘I wonder what my father could have said to cause …’ She trailed off. ‘I told you that he had a propensity for annoying people. That’s something of an understatement.’

  She pulled the starting cord, turned the throttle and told them to hang on.

  The engine caught and the boat puttered away from the jetty, riding the slight swell; as she increased speed, the boat smacked against the sea and water flew up from either side of the bow in a shower of jewelled spray.

  Langham looked back at the way they had come. In the fold of the horseshoe bay, the village climbed the hillside, surrounded by meadows and forest. To the left, prominent on the headland, stood the turreted Gothic structure of Connaught House.

  As they bounced from the bay and headed towards the open sea, Annabelle turned to them. ‘What did my father say about his meeting with the colonel? I take it you asked him?’

  ‘It did come up at dinner,’ Langham said, glancing at Maria. ‘He was far from sympathetic. Said I should have left him to blow his brains out.’

  Annabelle winced. ‘He can be so callous at times. All this speaking his mind malarkey … Drink talking, more like. Have you seen my father today?’

  ‘He wasn’t around at breakfast,’ Maria said.

  ‘No,’ Annabelle said, ‘he takes breakfast in his room, then locks himself away all day in his study, and woe betide anyone who tries to interrupt him.’ She looked at Maria. ‘Is that like all writers? Does Donald fly into a rage at the slightest interruption?’

  Maria smiled. ‘I haven’t seen Donald fly into a rage about anything!’

  ‘I’ve taught myself to scribble whatever the distraction,’ he said. ‘Before the war I rented a bedsit in Hackney next door to a family of ten.’

  Annabelle eased the tiller to her right, and the boat described a great arc away from the bay and along the coast.

  ‘I’m sorry to harp on about this,’ Langham said a while later, ‘but I’m intrigued by your father’s dealings with the colonel. From the little that’s been said, I get the impression that something happened to scupper their friendship, way back.’ He hesitated. ‘You said yesterday that he might have loaned the colonel some money?’

  With the headwind tugging at her auburn tresses, Annabelle stared at the horizon. ‘I was surmising, Donald. You see, I last saw the colonel when I was ten. This would have been back in ’thirty-five. You know what childhood memories are like … they can be almost dreamlike. I recall seeing Haxby in my father’s flat in Islington; both men were drunk. I heard them talking … arguing … late one evening, and I must have got up to see what was happening. I don’t know, but I have the impression that my father was giving something to the colonel … an envelope.’ She shook her head, smiling at the errant memory of the girl she had been. ‘I must have leapt to the conclusion that the envelope contained money, but it might have been anything.’

  ‘And your father hasn’t had anything to do with Haxby since then?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Of course, they might have met on one of my father’s trips up to London. But no, he’s never said anything about meeting him.’

  Langham wondered at the wisdom of telling Annabelle what Colonel Haxby had said about her father having killed a man. He decided that he’d better keep it to himself.

  ‘I’ll take you to a famous smugglers’ cave a mile or two along the coast,’ Annabelle said a little later, ‘and then we’ll pull into an idyllic little cove, moor up and have lunch.’

  Langham looked back at the coast. They were perhaps a mile from shore now and the changes that humankind had wrought on the landscape, in terms of roads and villages, appeared negligible against the greater evidence of the natural landscape, the vast swathes of woodland and wild meadow that stretched east and west as far as the eye could see. After London, this corner of Cornwall seemed an unpopulated paradise.

  Annabelle steered them towards the coast, approaching an undulating line of cliffs. She throttled back and the boat slowed as they came to the high, arched opening of a gaping cave. She eased the boat out of the direct sunlight and into the cave’s cool interior.

  ‘It’s known locally as Mad Eddy’s Hole,’ she said above the plashing of the waves. ‘There’s a ledge at the very back, and the story goes that Mad Eddy and his chums tunnelled up through the limestone to create a passage to the hamlet on the headland and used it to smuggle contraband. This was back in the seventeen hundreds. Rumour has it that a bit of smuggling still goes on.’

  She turned the boat and they headed back out to the open sea.

  She pointed ahead. ‘And that inlet, there, is Kittiwake Cove. It’s approachable only by boat and a perilously steep track, so with luck we’ll dine alone. Hungry?’

  ‘Famished,’ Maria said.

  They put into the cove and Annabelle moored the boat to the warped and salted timbers of a dilapidated jetty. Langham climbed out first, assisted the women on to the jetty and led the way along the treacherous boards to a shingle beach.

  They ate their lunch in the shade of a wind-stunted hawthorn, Maria and Annabelle chatting about their respective jobs and the merits of life in London compared with the delights of the countryside.

  ‘But do you know,’ Annabelle said at one point, ‘a part of me would really like to get away from it all and live abroad. I really envy Uncle Monty and his lifestyle. It must be wonderful to explore exotic climes and write about one’s exploits.’

  ‘I’m not so sure that it’s all plain sailing,’ Langham said, biting into a sandwich. ‘He was just telling me that he’s going through a bit of a lean time.’

  Annabelle laughed. ‘Oh, don’t be taken in by Uncle Monty’s tales of penury. He doesn’t do too badly, what with his commissions and the annual allowance my father makes him.’

  Langham looked at the woman. ‘An allowance?’

  ‘Five hundred a year, I think it is,’ she said. ‘They never got on as children – hated each other, in fact. They were so very different, you see. Monty was always out adventuring, exploring the coast, building dens and playing with the local children. My father was somewhat solitary and bookish; he didn’t mix with Monty’s friends.’

  ‘So the allowance …’ Langham said.

  Annabelle began to say something, and he wondered if the word might have been ‘conscience’, but she bit her lip and shook her head. Instead, she said, ‘My father can afford it,’ and left it at that.

  Langham was about to ask her how Monty had come by the injury to his hand, but Maria was saying, ‘It must be nice to see your uncle again, after so long? He doesn’t often get down here, I understand?’

  ‘He doesn’t. Despite the allowance, Monty and my father aren’t that close. But I do see Monty quite regularly; in fact, every time he’s in London – perhaps three or four times a year. He takes me to the Travellers Club and introduces me to his famous friends.’

  ‘You’re close?’ Langham said.

  Annabelle smiled down at her coffee cup. ‘I love Monty,’ she said. ‘Yes, we’re very close. I think I’m the daughter he never had.’ She hesitated. ‘You see, the accident he had as a child injured more than just his hands. The burns were terrible … As a result, he was never able to become a father.’

  Maria winced and Langham made the requisite sympathetic noises.

  Annabelle smiled brightly. ‘So … I’m the daughter he never had – and Unc
le Monty is the father I wish I had.’

  They finished the picnic in silence, and Langham placed an arm behind his head as a pillow and closed his eyes. The women strolled off, their voices a lulling murmur at the edge of his consciousness.

  He heard Maria ask, ‘What happened?’

  ‘It only lasted a few weeks,’ Annabelle replied. ‘You know how it is, to begin with. You think the world of him, see in him what you believe is there, but isn’t really. And then you come to know the real man, and …’ She made the sound of an expiring match, ‘Phht! And it’s all over.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘But, as they say, that’s all so much water under the bridge.’

  Langham opened his eyes and sat up.

  Annabelle was crouching a few yards away, examining sea shells. Maria strolled back to Langham and hauled him to his feet. ‘Come on, lazybones, let’s explore.’

  He laughed. ‘If we must.’

  They crunched through the shingle, the slipping stones pulling them this way and that. Maria laughed and almost fell over, and Langham caught her arm to keep her upright. They came to the end of the beach, climbed on to a rocky outcropping and admired the enclosing headlands.

  Maria said, ‘Annabelle told me something interesting, Donald.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She had an affair with Wilson Royce.’

  He pulled back his head, surprised. ‘No!’

  ‘That’s what she said. Just after he took up his position as her father’s business manager, last year, he made a play for her and she reciprocated. It went well for a while, and then she saw through him, she said.’

  ‘That’s dashed odd. And now she’s paying the agency three guineas an hour to find out what he’s up to.’

  ‘Perhaps, Donald, she discovered he was up to no good – or suspected something – and it was this that persuaded her to end the relationship.’

  ‘Maybe. But why didn’t she tell me what she suspected?’ He stared along the beach at Annabelle Connaught; she was striding along the tideline, lost in thought.

  ‘Do you know,’ Maria said. ‘I could easily become accustomed to living in the country. Donald, let’s take up Charles’s offer to stay at his place while we’re house-hunting,’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘After all this countryside, I really want to get away from London. A lovely little cottage in the country.’

  He looked at her. ‘And a dog?’

  ‘Mmm. And a dog.’

  ‘And I’ll walk it while you’re at work,’ he said.

  ‘And I’ll take my turn when you’re in London.’

  ‘That sounds like a deal,’ he said. ‘All we have to do now is find a cottage.’

  ‘And a dog.’

  ‘A cat would be easier to look after.’

  ‘A dog and a cat,’ she said, resting her head on his shoulder, ‘and a baby.’

  He put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the sun-warmed crown of her head.

  It was after five by the time they arrived back at the mooring below Threepenny Cottage, climbed the precipitous stairway and thanked Annabelle for a wonderful afternoon. Only as they were taking their leave did she ask Langham how his investigations regarding Wilson Royce were progressing. He told her that his partner in London was chasing certain leads, and that he’d know more when he spoke to him later today or tomorrow. ‘As soon as I learn anything more, I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Do that,’ Annabelle said as she waved them off.

  Langham drove through the village, then took the lane through the forest to Connaught House.

  He was aware that Maria was staring at him. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘You haven’t said anything,’ she said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You know.’

  He grinned.

  She said, ‘So?’

  He pulled into the side of the lane, turned in his seat and took her hand. ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘More than anything.’

  ‘Boy or girl?’

  ‘I’m not really bothered, just as long as he or she is healthy.’

  ‘If it’s a boy, then I’ll take him to watch the Arsenal every other week.’

  ‘Mmm. And if it’s a girl, I’ll dress her in fabulous home-made dresses and teach her how to bake.’

  He looked at her. ‘I didn’t know you baked.’

  She laughed. ‘I can always learn, Donald.’

  ‘Do you know something, my darling?’ he said as he drove off. ‘I feel so good at the moment that not even the prospect of dinner this evening with Denbigh Connaught and his motley crew can dampen my spirits.’

  ‘That’s the ticket, my boy – as Charles would say.’

  ‘Speaking of whom,’ Langham said as they drove through the gates of Connaught House and crunched up the gravel drive, ‘I hope he hasn’t been brooding all day.’

  ‘He was fine when I said goodbye this morning,’ Maria said.

  Pandora Jade had evidently spent the afternoon painting beside the house; she was packing up as Langham braked beside her.

  ‘Productive day?’ he asked.

  She lofted a big canvas, covered in what looked like children’s multicoloured building blocks. ‘Very. The landscape around here is inspirational. I think I’ve captured the essence of the place, don’t you?’

  Langham and Maria stared at the proffered painting. The tumble of cubes represented the approximate shape of the coastline. ‘Fascinating,’ Langham said.

  Maria was more constructive. ‘I like it. I think you’ve caught the wild beauty of the coast.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Pandora said. ‘Of course, this is just a rough. I’ll knock it into shape once I’m back in London.’

  They strolled towards the house.

  ‘You don’t know how the colonel is today, by any chance?’ Langham asked the artist.

  ‘The old fool was up for lunch, and he seemed as right as rain. No mention of yesterday’s folderol.’

  Langham hesitated, then asked, ‘How did your one-to-one go with the Great Man – if you don’t mind my asking?’

  Pandora paused at the foot of the stairs, staring at him. ‘That’s my business, Mr Langham – if you don’t mind my saying.’ And with this she turned on her heel and marched up the staircase.

  Langham raised his eyebrows at Maria, who said, ‘And that’s telling you, Mr Langham.’

  He smiled. ‘It certainly is.’

  They made their way to their room, bathed and changed, then rested for half an hour. He watched Maria as she dressed for dinner. ‘Oh, before I forget, did you really like Pandora’s daub?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. I thought she captured the essence of the place, in a very abstract fashion.’ She turned to him and said, ‘Zip me up, Donald. You didn’t like it?’

  He frowned. ‘Must admit it spoke in a language I couldn’t comprehend.’

  She kissed his forehead. ‘You old fuddy-duddy,’ she laughed. ‘Come on, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a G and T.’

  They made their way downstairs to the drawing room.

  Lady Cecelia was standing before the French windows, in conversation with Pandora Jade. Charles stood beside the women, nursing a huge brandy glass and smiling at something Wilson Royce was telling him. The young man was dressed rather comically, Langham thought, in golfing tweeds and plus fours.

  ‘Ah,’ Royce said as they entered, ‘what’s your poison?’

  They asked for gin and tonics and joined the others.

  ‘Pandora was regaling me,’ Lady Cecelia said, ‘with the antics of her artistic set in Soho. I must say, it sounds like another world entirely. A far cry from Knightsbridge!’

  ‘Artists,’ Pandora pronounced. ‘Mad as hatters, the lot of ’em.’

  ‘But surely,’ Charles said gallantly, ‘you don’t include yourself in that sobriquet?’

  ‘I most certainly do, Elder. You see, you’ve got to be a bit doolally to see the world in the
abstract. As my therapist says—’

  Charles pressed splayed fingers to his chest. ‘You have a therapist?’ he exclaimed, aghast at the very notion.

  ‘An artist must know herself,’ Pandora said. ‘And you can’t do that alone, in my opinion.’

  ‘And what,’ Charles asked, ‘did your therapist say?’

  ‘Didn’t beat about the bush. Came straight out with it. Opined that I’m three sheets to the wind. Which, he said, accounts for my unrecognized genius. Or perhaps,’ she went on, frowning, ‘my unrecognized genius accounts for my madness.’

  Everyone laughed at the strange woman’s self-deprecation.

  ‘And I take it that you,’ Charles said, eyeing Royce’s get-up, ‘have been tramping the fairway?’

  ‘I have Sunday mornings off, so I try to get in a quick nine holes,’ Royce said. ‘Back by noon in case his nibs wants anything. I was so busy this afternoon, attempting to clear the rubbish from his old study, that I didn’t have time to change.’

  ‘Once, in my more athletic youth, I was known to flog the India rubber,’ Charles said. ‘These days I conserve my energy for more sedentary pursuits, like dining.’

  Langham glanced at Maria; she was staring at her business partner with a fond twinkle in her eye.

  ‘I have rather fallen in love with the walled garden,’ Lady Cecelia said. ‘I spent much of the afternoon there, reading Jane Austen and admiring the roses. What better way to spend a Sunday afternoon?’

  Maria told the guests about their voyage across the high seas. Langham heard the door open; Colonel Haxby entered, dressed in military-creased trousers, blazer and regimental tie. The old soldier limped across to the bar and helped himself to a Scotch.

  Langham noticed that Charles’s glass was empty, and that Maria’s was almost so. He drained his gin and tonic, asked if anyone else required a top-up and crossed to the bar.

  ‘Colonel, how are you today?’

  ‘Top-hole.’ Haxby leaned against the bar and eyed Langham as the latter poured the drinks. ‘I think I’m in your debt, young sir.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Chatting to your chum Elder over lunch. Told me you suffered from vertigo. Dashed brave of you to do what you did.’