skittering eyes and narrow mouth. And he wasn't sure he believed the bit about there being no relatives.
'Were you a friend of Arina's?' he probed, eyeing him steadily.
The man's eyes refused to meet Horton's. 'I knew her father, Sir Christopher Sutton. He died just before Christmas. Cancer.'
So no suspicious circumstances there, though ponytail oozed suspicion. Horton recalled what Dr Clayton had said. It had to be the same Sir Christopher. Time for introductions.
With a smile he stretched out his hand. 'Andy Horton.'
Ponytail eyed it as though it contained a grenade before sniffing and taking it briefly and damply. 'Roy Danesbrook.'
Resisting the urge to wipe his palm down the side of his trousers, Horton said, 'Isn't there anyone I can speak to about Arina?'
'Depends what you want to know.'
What you're doing here for a start, thought Horton, getting rather fed up with Danesbrook's evasiveness and recognizing the same defensive tone he'd heard many times in an interview room. Although he'd never met Sir Christopher he couldn't believe that such an eminent man could have been friends with so shifty a bastard. He wished he was here in his official capacity as a police officer, then he could have been as blunt as he wanted. But maybe he could be.
'I want to know why Owen Carlsson is dead,' he said briskly.
Danesbrook's eyes widened. His lips twitched nervously.
'I take it you knew Owen,' Horton pressed.
'Not really. I saw him at Arina's funeral. Did he kill himself?'
'Why should he do that?'
'I just thought…' Danesbrook shifted and fiddled with his ponytail.
'When was her funeral?' Horton asked, sharper this time.
'Tuesday before last. She's buried alongside her father. They're in the churchyard.' He jerked his head to his right. 'The last plot before the graveyard opens out into the new section. Sir Christopher is with his late wife and Arina next to them. Look, I've got to go.'
But you've only just got here. As if reading his mind Danesbrook said, 'I only came up to the house because I saw your bike from the road and wondered who you were.'
Oh yeah? Horton didn't believe that for a second. 'Did Owen say anything to you about Arina's death?'
'No, nothing. I'm late. Sorry, can't help you.'
He watched Danesbrook slither into the car, jerk it round and skid away, but not before he noticed a dent in the front passenger door. He reached for his phone and relayed Danesbrook's registration number to Cantelli, adding, 'Find out all you can about him, and who formally identified Arina's body. Ask Trueman to get some background information on Arina Sutton and her father, Sir Christopher, and find out who their solicitor is. Any news on Thea?'
'No. Sorry.'
Horton had hoped but not expected. He crossed to the church. Now that he was here he might as well take a look at the graves. He doubted they'd reveal anything, but no harm in hoping. He wondered why his news about Owen Carlsson's death had so rattled Danesbrook.
He pushed open the wrought-iron gate and eyed the church. Saxon, he reckoned. Not that he was an expert but he'd once had a girlfriend who was and she'd dragged him around the churches of southern England in the hope that she'd educate him. He'd gone in the hope that he'd get his wicked way with her, which he hadn't. The romance — though he could hardly call it that — had fizzled out somewhere in Dorset.
He found the graves without too much trouble. On Arina's there was a mound of earth and decaying flowers, and on her father's a wooden cross with his and his wife's name etched on it. Horton guessed the headstone had been removed to accommodate the death notices of husband and wife. He bent to read the inscriptions on the cards on Arina's grave, but the weather had made the writing illegible.
Hearing footsteps, Horton turned to see a tall, athletically built man with fair shoulder-length hair approaching him. His weather-worn face and the name on his green sweatshirt told Horton he was a landscape gardener, either called Jonathan Anmore, or he worked for Jonathan Anmore. The former was confirmed after a brief introduction.
'I look after the gardens at Scanaford House,' Anmore explained. 'Sir Christopher was a real gent and his daughter, Arina, was a lovely lady. Sad to think they're both gone now. She came here in July to look after the professor when he got ill. Are you a friend of Arina's or the Prof's? I don't remember seeing you at their funerals?'
'I didn't know either of them. I was a friend of Owen Carlsson's.'
Anmore looked surprised before his expression deepened into one of concern. 'I heard about his death on the radio.'
Which was more than Danesbrook had. Horton said, 'I had hoped Arina's relatives might tell me something that would help me find out why Owen died, but I met a man called Danesbrook at the house who said there aren't any relatives.'
Anmore ran a hand through his hair and nodded. 'That's right.'
'So who inherits?'
'No idea.' After a short pause Anmore added, 'Do the police know how Owen died?'
'Probably, but they're not saying much to me. Could be suicide, could be murder?'
'But who would want to murder him?'
Horton shrugged. 'How did Owen seem at Arina's funeral?'
'Upset, like we all were.'
'And was that the last time you saw him, Tuesday week?' Horton tried not to sound like a policeman.
'Yes. What about his sister? Can't she help?'
So he knew about Thea. 'I don't want to upset her any more than she already is.'
'No. I guess not.'
'Did you meet her at Arina's funeral?'
'No. I heard Owen tell Bella Westbury that she was staying with him for a few days.'
And who else had heard this, Horton wondered? He asked who Bella Westbury was.
'The professor's housekeeper. She lives in the village.' Anmore glanced back towards Scanaford House. 'It's that house, you know. It's cursed. Everyone who comes into contact with it ends up dead. Except me and Bella. It's haunted, you know. No, it's true, all documented fact. A father killed his daughter there in 1865 and threw her body in the lake. She's said to walk the house before a death.'
Anmore's words had pricked Horton's memory. He recalled the book by Thea's bedside, The Lost Ghosts of the Isle of Wight, and the inscription inside it, 'To Thea who has the gift — Helen.' It must have been given to her by her mother and now that book, like all the others in the house, and Owen's environmental papers, were ashes.
'Did Arina see this ghost before her father's death?' he asked, not particularly seriously.
'She never said.' Then Anmore grinned. 'I don't believe in ghosts either, but the murder bit's true.'
And that was one murder that Horton didn't have to solve.
Anmore's mobile phone rang. There was nothing more to be gained by hanging around here. Maybe this Bella Westbury could provide him with more information.
Horton headed for the village but not before he paused at the top of the driveway and looked back at Scanaford House. The driveway curved to the left and was screened from the road by evergreen trees. It was as he had thought. Whatever Danesbrook had come here for, it hadn't been to check out Horton's Harley — because unless the man had X-ray eyes there was simply no way he could have seen it.
EIGHT
' Tea?' asked Bella Westbury crisply.
