Gibbs appeared, keeping his head down and walking with a distinct shuffle.
“How are you, Mr. Gibbs?” Judith asked as he approached.
The old man merely shook his head.
Judith knew it would be awkward to pursue the query. “Are you taking us in the skiff?”
Gibbs nodded. Judith took a few steps toward the nearest flower bed. “The hyacinths are coming up. They have a lovely scent.”
Gibbs kept silent. Before Judith could say anything else, Beth came hurrying out of the door to the private apartments. “Sorry,” she apologized breathlessly, hoisting her black hobo bag over her shoulder. “I’m a bit disorganized this morning.”
“Not to worry,” Judith assured Beth. “It’s pleasant here in the courtyard.”
Gibbs was already crossing the drawbridge and heading for the lift. Beth nodded at his stooped figure. “Very sad for him and Mrs. Gibbs.”
“It would help if Harry’s parents were here,” Judith said. “Surely they’d be some comfort, despite their own grief.”
Beth kept walking, her eyes straight ahead. “Perhaps.”
The descent in the lift and the short ride to the beach were made in silence. The section between the sea and the cliff that had been designated as the crime scene was still marked off. A lone constable stood guard, feet firmly planted in the sand, hands behind his back, and eyes staring straight ahead.
“Oh no!” Beth cried after she and Judith had gotten out of the skiff and were walking to the Fordyce sedan. “The vultures have flown in.”
Judith looked up to the cliff’s edge. A dozen or more people were congregated, at least two with camcorders and other TV devices.
“I was so hoping the press would keep away,” Beth said angrily. “Philip doesn’t need negative publicity. We’ll simply have to soldier on.”
She slipped behind the wheel while Judith sat in the luxurious passenger seat. After making sure that the windows and doors were secure, Beth set her face in an impassive expression and drove up the track. Members of the press immediately pounced, trying to stop the car and shouting questions. Undeterred, Beth kept going.
“Do they know who you are?” Judith asked as the Daimler purred along the High Street while a handful of reporters gave up the chase.
“Probably,” Beth replied, annoyed. “The villagers are gossips and some are open to bribery. I apologize for the inconvenience. This must be distressing for someone like you who must lead a very quiet life.”
“Uh…yes, certainly.” Judith stared out through the window to avoid looking at Beth. It wouldn’t do to admit that she was an old hand at dealing with the media, up to and including her televised life-and-death confrontation with a merciless killer. “I understand,” Judith said as they passed the village green and moved smoothly along the road to Hollywood, “Moira has a history of ill health.”
Beth shrugged. “Moira’s always been high-strung, even when we were children at boarding school in France. Some of her problems are probably due to stress, but the pains in her side and the fainting spells are no less real because they’re caused by emotion.”
“She must’ve gotten ill after I saw her yesterday,” Judith said. “Moira seemed in good spirits when Renie and I called on her.”
Beth darted a sidelong glance at Judith. “How kind of you.”
Judith ignored what she thought was a hint of irony. The sun cast filmy rays through greening foliage as they wound along the road. Judith changed the subject. “Was Chuckie born with his affliction?”
“You mean the epilepsy?” Beth saw Judith nod. “No. He had other problems, but he took a bad fall down a staircase in his early teens. A blow to the head can bring on epilepsy. Chuckie had the best doctors, but they couldn’t help him much. The damage was done.”
“Will he be able to take over the distillery when the time comes?”
Beth slowed to turn off the road. “Most epileptics lead quite normal and successful lives. But Chuckie…” She let the sentence fade as she rolled down the window and punched the intercom buzzer that opened the gates to Hollywood House. Judith could hear Fergus’s voice. Beth didn’t finish her assessment of Chuckie. “It’s a pity,” she said as the car glided to a stop, “that Moira and Harry didn’t patch things up sooner instead of waiting until Harry got sick.”
“I understand they weren’t married long,” Judith said.
“It was rocky from the start,” Beth said with a frown as Fergus opened the front door. “They hadn’t known each other very long,” she continued, ignoring the butler’s stiff stance on the porch. “You’re here to help me care for Moira, so you should understand the situation. It was a whirlwind courtship, and after they married, things started to fall apart. Harry wanted a big role with Blackwell Petroleum. Moira didn’t mind having him work for the company, but she didn’t feel he was ready to be in a decision-making position. Her brother Jimmy agreed with her—one of the few times that they agreed about anything.”
“Had Harry any experience in business?” Judith asked.
Beth’s expression was wry. “Harry had very little experience with work, let alone the business world. He grew angry with Moira and Jimmy for being kept in the background, and got it in his head that Moira was carrying on with her secretary, David Piazza.”
“Was she?” Judith asked.
“No, I really don’t think so. They were close, probably because Harry had gotten so nasty and Davey offered a sympathetic shoulder for Moira to cry on. When he had his fatal car accident, Moira almost miscarried. But the baby was born in November, and before Christmas she and Harry tried to smooth things out. Then he got flu about a month ago. Some of these viruses linger. Moira didn’t want him near the baby, so he moved to Grimloch. He was returning to Hollywood sometime this week, but instead he got killed. I’m sure Moira blames herself.”
