Death of a Delft Blue

‘Not so far as my memory serves me, but I take your point. My point is that Ruby wouldn’t stand to gain anything by Florian’s death, any more than Opal would.’

‘I suppose Florian’s dad is named Sapphire!’

‘He answers to the perfectly ordinary name of Frank. He and his wife live in Scotland and own some hotels there.’

‘Well, parents don’t often sacrifice their offspring, except for ritual purposes, so I think we can rule them out. Who else is there?’

‘Simply nobody who could gain anything from Florian’s death, so far as I can see.’

‘Revenge?’

‘On Florian? He’s cocky, as I said, and a bit of a poop, I admit, but I can’t see why anybody would want to be revenged on him.’

‘Could the Jewish element be involved in any way? Anti-Semitism on his part?’

‘Good gracious, no! Bernardo socked him once, as I told you, but that was simply man-to-man. The only people left — and neither of them fits the picture of a murderer — are the rather terrible grandmother Rebekah Rose and her incredibly quiet and beautifully dressed daughter Petra. You’d adore old Rebekah. She offered to buy Mrs Croc.’s emerald ring at a tenth of its value. Haggling over money is her only interest. She’s utterly outrageous and the most gorgeous fun, but, apart from doing it down over a monetary transaction, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘Oh, well, I’ll take your word for it. How does she get on with her grandson?’

‘Bernardo? They fight with one another all the time, but Mrs Croc. is certain that really they love each other dearly.’

‘You can’t imagine old Rebekah trying to clear the way for Bernardo by removing Florian? I mean, if money is her god…’

‘No, I can’t imagine it, but that doesn’t make it out of the question, I suppose. Anyway, Bernardo is definitely in the will.’

‘One other point occurs to me. When was the broken engagement mended and Bernardo reinstated as part heir presumptive — before or after there was this hue and cry after Florian?’

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Laura, dismayed. ‘Yes, there is that, isn’t there?’ Then she brightened up again. ‘Oh, it doesn’t make any difference, though,’ she added. ‘It was Florian’s walking out on his granduncle, and not the mended engagement, that got him disinherited.’

‘It doesn’t seem a strong enough reason for disinheriting him,’ said Gavin, frowning. ‘What’s old van Zestien like? — crusty, irascible, autocratic?’

‘Well, he takes his position as head of the family quite seriously, of course, but, actually, although on the non- talkative side, he’s an old pet.’

‘Did he know where Florian was going when he left his house?’

‘Oh, I think so. There wasn’t any secret about it, so far as I gathered.’

‘Then I think the old gentleman had some other reason for cutting him out of his testamentary depositions.’

‘There was no other reason given, and nothing more sinister suggested or even hinted at.’

‘Families don’t like washing their dirty linen in public, Laura. Anyway, I may be wrong. Where do you suggest we stay in Derbyshire?’

‘I bought an Ordnance map to check with my notes. I’ll get it.’

It proved to be the one-inch Tourist Map of the Peak District, showing the boundary of the National Park. It was a magnificent sheet, mounted on cloth and measuring roughly forty-two by thirty-two inches over all. It included bits of Oldham, Manchester, Stockport, Macclesfield and Stoke-on-Trent to the west, and a sizeable chunk of Sheffield to the east.

‘Excellent value for nine bob,’ said Gavin. ‘I do appreciate the thought that we might like to go to Oldham! Well, now, where do we start?’

Laura’s itinerary, compiled from her notes, included Buxton, Castleton and (since she supposed she had better tell Sweyn that she had seen his Saxon cross with the knot-work panels) the village of Hope. The other village she intended to visit was Peak Forest, a mile from whose boundaries lay the Eldon Hole. She had decided to leave it to the last because at Poole’s Cavern on the slope of Grin Low, and at Castleton, there were guides to be interrogated. Eldon Hole, however, was fenced in and no guide was available to help in the exploration of its awesome depths.

She and Gavin made their headquarters in Buxton and ‘did’ Poole’s Cavern on the first morning of their stay. It was one of a series of natural limestone caves in which the dripping water had formed stalactites and had worn the rocks into various incredible and fantastic shapes. It was bitterly cold in the cave, a fact which Gavin, always prearmed, had established in conversation with the hotel porter. He had compelled the reluctant Laura, therefore, to wrap up warmly and had added a second pullover to his own outfit.

In the cave, a ruminating stream dolefully chanted its thoughts. The guide went ahead to light the way. So late in the season there were not many tourists. There was plenty of chance to detain him in conversation at the end of the trip. He did not remember having seen Florian.

‘Well, that’s one knocked off the record, anyway,’ said

Gavin cheerfully at lunch. ‘What’s the programme for this afternoon? Do you desire to take the waters?’

‘I don’t want any more caves, anyway.’

‘Then what about your Saxon cross or crosses? We could use the car to visit those.’

The first church was beside the River Noe. They went to it by way of the Glossop road, turned off at Chapel-