The meeting at Larkin Gadwall had not been particularly illuminating. Atticus Pünd had been shown the brochure for the new development – everything in watercolour with smiling families, sketched in almost like ghosts, drifting through their new paradise. Planning permission had been approved. Construction was due to start the following spring. Philip Gadwall, the senior partner, insisted that Dingle Dell was an unremarkable piece of woodland and that the new homes would benefit the neighbourhood. ‘It’s very much in the council’s mind that we regenerate our villages. We need new homes for local families if we’re going to keep the villages alive.’
Chubb had listened to all this in silence. It struck him that the families in the brochure, with their smart clothes and brand-new cars, didn’t look local at all. He was quite glad when Pünd announced that he had no further questions and they were able to get back out into the street.
It turned out that Frances Pye had already left hospital and had insisted on returning home, so that was where the three men – Pünd, Fraser and Chubb – went next. The police cars had already left Pye Hall by the time they arrived. Driving past the Lodge and up the gravel driveway, Pünd was struck by how normal everything looked with the afternoon sun already dipping behind the trees.
‘That must have been where Mary Blakiston lived,’ Fraser said, pointing to the silent Lodge House as they passed.
‘At one time with her two sons, Robert and Tom,’ Pünd said. ‘Let us not forget that the younger of the two children also died.’ He gazed out of the window, his face suddenly grim. ‘This place has seen a lot of death.’
They pulled in. Chubb had driven ahead of them and was waiting for them at the front door. A square of police tape hung limply around the handprint in the soil and Fraser wondered if it had been linked to the gardener, Brent, or to anyone else. They went straight into the house. Someone had been busy. The Persian rug had been removed, the flagstones washed down. The suit of armour had gone too. The police would have held on to the sword – it was, after all, the murder weapon. But the rest of the armour would have been too grim a reminder of what had occurred. The whole house was silent. There was no sign of Lady Pye. Chubb hesitated, unsure how to proceed.
And then a door opened and a man appeared, coming out of the living room. He was in his late thirties, with dark hair and a moustache, wearing a blue blazer with a crest on the front pocket. He had a lazy walk, one hand in his pocket and a cigarette in the other. Fraser had the immediate thought that this was a man whom it would be easy to dislike. He did not just arouse antipathy; he almost seemed to cultivate it.
The new arrival was surprised to find three visitors in the hall and he didn’t try to conceal it. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘I was about to ask you the same,’ Chubb replied, already bristling. ‘I’m with the police.’
‘Oh.’ The man’s face fell. ‘Well, I’m a friend of Frances’s – Lady Pye. I’ve come down from London to look after her – hour of need and all that. The name’s Dartford, Jack Dartford.’ He held a hand out vaguely, then withdrew it. ‘She’s very upset, you know.’
‘I’m sure.’ Pünd stepped forward. ‘I would be interested to know how you heard the news, Mr Dartford.’
‘About Magnus? She rang me.’
‘Today?’
‘No. Last night. Immediately after she’d called the police. She was actually quite hysterical. I’d have come down straight away but it was a bit late to hit the road and I had meetings this morning so I said I’d arrive around lunchtime, which is what I did. Picked her up at the hospital and brought her here. Her son, Freddy, is with her, by the way. He’d been staying with friends on the south coast.’
‘You will forgive me for asking, but I wonder why she selected you out of all of her friends in what you term her hour of need?’
‘Well, that’s easy enough to explain, Mr …?’
‘Pünd.’
‘Pünd? That’s a German name. And you’ve got the accent to go with it. What are you doing here?’
‘Mr Pünd is helping us,’ Chubb cut in, shortly.
‘Oh – all right. What was the question? Why did she ask me?’ For all his bluster, it was evident that Jack Dartford was casting around for a safe answer. ‘Well, I suppose it was because we’d just had lunch together. I actually went with her to the station and put her on the train back to Bath. I’d have been uppermost in her mind.’
‘Lady Pye was with you in London on the day of the murder?’ Pünd asked.
‘Yes.’ Dartford half-sighed, as if he had given away more than he had intended. ‘We had a business lunch. I advise her about stocks and shares, investments … that sort of thing.’
‘And what did you do after lunch, Mr Dartford?’
‘I just told you—’
‘You told us that you accompanied Lady Pye to the station. But we know that she came to Bath on a late evening train. She reached the house around half past nine. I take it, therefore, that you spent the afternoon together.’
‘Yes. We did.’ Dartford was looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘We killed a bit of time.’ He thought for a moment. ‘We went to a gallery. The Royal Academy.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Just some paintings. Dreary stuff.’
‘Lady Pye has said that she went shopping.’
‘We did a bit of shopping too. She didn’t buy anything though … not that I can remember. She wasn’t really in the mood.’
‘I have one last question for you, if you will forgive me, Mr Dartford. You say that you are a friend of Lady Pye. Would you have described yourself as a friend of the late Sir Magnus, too?’
‘No. Not really. I mean, I knew him of course. I quite liked him. Decent enough sort of chap. But Frances and I used to play tennis together. That’s how we met. So I saw rather more of her than of him. Not that he minded! But he wasn’t particularly sporty. That’s all.’
‘Where is Lady Pye?’ Chubb asked.
‘She’s in her room, upstairs. She’s in bed.’
‘Asleep?’
‘I don’t think so. She wasn’t when I looked in a few minutes ago.’
‘Then we would like to see her.’
‘Now?’ Dartford saw the answer in the detective’s implacable face. ‘All right, I’ll take you up.’
6
Frances Pye was lying on her bed, wrapped in a dressing gown and half-submerged in a wave of crumpled sheets. She had been drinking champagne. There was a half-empty glass on the table beside her, along with a bottle, slanting out of an ice bucket. Sedative or celebration? To Fraser’s eye, it could have been either and the look on her face as they came in was just as hard to decipher. She was annoyed to be interrupted but at the same time she had been expecting it. She was reluctant to talk but had already geared herself up to answer the questions that must come her way.
She was not alone. A teenaged boy, dressed in whites as if for cricket, lounged in a chair, one leg crossed over the other. He was obviously her son. He had the same dark hair, swept back across his forehead, the same haughty eyes. He was eating an apple. Neither mother nor son looked particularly grieved by what had happened. She could have been in bed with a touch of flu. He could have been visiting her.
‘Frances …’ Jack Dartford introduced them. ‘This is Detective Inspector Chubb. He’s from the Bath police.’
‘We saw each other briefly the night it happened,’ Chubb reminded her. ‘I was there when you were taken off in the ambulance.’
‘Oh yes.’ The voice was husky, uninterested.
‘And this is Mr Pond.’