7
Getting into the driver’s seat, I nosed my way out of the alleyway into the high street, which was even heavier with traffic than it had been earlier. But at least I now had my bearings, making it unlikely I would take a wrong turn on my way back to Cragstone House.
Why hadn’t I spotted Mr. Scrimshank as a murderer the moment he opened the door? It was there in his eyes, that nasty dull brown color, with no eyelashes to speak of. I pictured him seated at his desk thinking up his next move, instead of doodling like a normal person. Though Betty might have been wrong about Lady Fiona’s being the one who did away with her husband, I now thought it sadly likely the man was dead.
But always the silver lining. I was no longer fixated on Val and whether Ben was one of the rare people ever to call her Valeria, or why after all these years she’d remembered that the uncle he’d worked for in London had been named Sol. People don’t need to be in a relationship of a lifetime to remember such details. What did keep popping into my head was the thought of Mrs. Malloy’s bag of toffees. I was starving. But there was no hope of her having left them on the backseat. They would be on her bedside table, along with a framed photo of herself, adding a personal touch to her room away from home, as advised by her favorite travel magazine.
Slowing my driving to a crawl, I focused on Mr. Gallagher’s demise. Could it be that her ladyship and Mr. Scrimshank had been partners in bringing it about? One thing seemed clear. The Gallagher money had been severely depleted. Tom and Betty had said so, and in addition Lady Fiona had sold her ancestral home.
What if she’d found out her husband had squandered her fortune through bad investments or riotous living? Maybe he’d had a gambling problem or bought racehorses that went lame. She could have lost her head and decided he had to go. What if Mr. Scrimshank’s offense was not embezzlement but covering up the losses on paper in an attempt to rid her ladyship of a motive for murder? Had he really been desperately in love with her for years? It was hard to imagine, given his desiccated appearance, but let’s not forget old Lord Snearsby’s searing passion for his forty-year-old female ward in
My mind went to the portrait of her ladyship as a young woman. She was beautiful and, according to Ariel, in love with a man her parents considered unworthy. What if that were because he was a mere accountant, rather than a member of the gentry? What if that man were Mr. Scrimshank, and despite the passage of time he’d continued to worship her, so that when she went to him begging for his help in concealing up the murder, he’d agreed to make up that story of a phone call? Far more convincing to the police than her ladyship saying she had heard from her husband. Had Betty thought along those lines? Was that her reason for inviting Mr. Scrimshank to tea tomorrow afternoon, to see if he and Lady Fiona avoided eye contact when Mr. Gallagher’s name was mentioned?
I had arrived back at Cragstone. Having driven through the gateway, I was about to pass the Dower House when someone stepped almost in my path. Fortunately, I was driving so slowly a three-year-old on a tricycle could have zapped past me, or I might have knocked the person down. But I had applied the brakes in the nick of time, and when a face appeared at my window, I quickly rolled it down.
“I’m sorry,” said a quavering voice. “I thought you were Val, but I see you’re not. On you go, I won’t keep you!” I was looking at a very old, much wrinkled lady with scant white hair twisted into a knot on top of her head. Her surprisingly sharp eyes were sufficiently dark as to be almost black.
“Are you Miss Pierce?” I asked her.
“That’s me, and you’ll be one of the guests of the new owners at Cragstone. I remember this car now; I saw you arrive earlier.”
“We brought Ariel home after an overnight stay with us.”
“Oh, yes! I heard by way of Mrs. Cake.” The black eyes gleamed. “The things children get up to these days. What is the world coming to? My Mr. Nigel would never have pulled such a stunt. You’ll know I was his nanny?”
“Yes.”
Miss Pierce continued to hover at the car window. “I came with Mr. Nigel when he married; nothing-certainly not his bride-could have persuaded him to leave me behind. Such a nice house his people had in Staffordshire. He never had any reason to run away when he was a little boy.” Her voice cracked, but she went gallantly on. “It’s some comfort now, when I find myself wondering when I’ll see his precious wee face again, to remember that his was a happy childhood.”
“Of course.”
“I saw to that. His parents were so supportive and sensible, never any interference on how I brought him up.”
“Really?”
“Extremely well bred, both of them.” Miss Pierce might have been discussing a pair of cocker spaniels that had done well at Cruft’s. “They stayed in the background, as is best. Always concerned for his welfare, always pleased when I brought him down to the drawing room for half an hour after tea. They did enjoy hearing him recite his little poems.”
“It must have made their day.”
“Very proud they were of his stout little legs. ‘Legs,’ his mother used to say, ‘are very important. His will stand him in good stead throughout life.’ And so they have, with all the walking he does on his travels. But she and her husband understood that it’s confusing for young ones to be thrust into family life too soon. It’s Nanny they want until they’re older.” Miss Pierce’s face was like an apple that has been stored too long in a dark cellar. At her age it was understandable that she clung to her memories.
“We’ve heard that Mr. Gallagher… went away.” I floundered.
“It was something in him, the need to answer the call of nature. Bless him!” The dark eyes gleamed with pride. “He never needed to tell Nanny when he had to go; I knew the signs by the way he’d stand, getting fidgety all of a sudden. And there would be that mournful look in his eyes.”
“Really?” What were we talking about?
“Her ladyship was never quick to see what was happening,” Miss Pierce lamented. “But I will admit she never did get annoyed afterward. It’ll all come out in the wash, seemed to be her attitude. Every other time, she carried on just as usual. But this time, when Mr. Nigel went, she phoned the police.”
This was interesting. “Was there something different on this occasion?”
The white head nodded. “He’d forgotten his walking stick. I suppose she thought they might be able to advise her on how to have it sent to him. He goes to quite remote places. Once he felt compelled to go to the Amazon, and a few years later it was the Himalayas… or was it Honduras? Off he’d go, without saying a word beforehand.”
“So as not to upset Lady Fiona ahead of time?”
“It was me he worried about. And he was always a touch absentminded, even when he wasn’t thinking about Brazilian butterflies or arctic sunrises. It really wasn’t kind of Lady Fiona to put the wind up me this time with her imaginings, silly as they were. It placed a cloud over things, and now I have this premonition that I won’t be here to greet dear Mr. Nigel when he returns from his happy wanderings.”
The wind did not moan, nor the skies darken ominously at her words, but she looked a very old lady in her gray skirt, prim white blouse, and hand-knitted cardigan.
“Would you like me to walk you back to your house?” I asked.
“That would be kind. I came outdoors looking for Val, my great-niece. I can’t think what can be keeping her! I’ve had dinner waiting this past half hour.”
“She was at Cragstone House when we left.” I got out of the car.
“I don’t understand that-her wanting to get in thick with people who don’t now and never will really belong there. I know you and your husband are friends of theirs”-Miss Pierce caught herself-“but I’m sure you can understand my feelings.”
“You’ve had a long relationship with the Gallaghers,” I said, offering her my arm. The early evening air was heady with the scent of roses that cascaded in pink and yellow exuberance over the low brick wall that separated the Dower House from the rest of the property. A yew arch provided entry onto a path that curved its way across a velvet spread of lawn to a white door with black iron hinges and knocker.
Miss Pierce sat down on a garden bench. “Val came back here this afternoon looking emotional. Maybe those
