Ant opened it, holding Percy back, to find three women standing there. ‘Good morning. This is quite a visitation,’ he said. The dog’s hackles were standing vertically on his neck.
Carla and her two daughters surged forward. ‘What do you call this, then?’ she shrilled. ‘How do you explain this?’ She brandished something chunky and yellow in his face.
‘You found your necklace. Congratulations.’ His voice shook, despite all his efforts. Something bad was happening. Percy had known all along.
‘You stole it. You or your ludicrous mother. And I’m calling the police right now. Bronya, Annika, one of you – where’s your phone?’
It was a staged melodrama, performed by people who should by rights be piled on a sofa weeping for their lost husband and stepfather. The action was progressing into the Frowses’ living room, whether they liked it or not. The shorter of the sisters produced a phone. Digby was standing in the middle of the room, blank confusion on his face.
‘It’s Boxing Day,’ Ant reminded the Russian trio. ‘If you dial 999 for a lost-and-found necklace, they won’t be very pleased.’
‘You found it,’ said Digby. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Hidden in your garden. Under one of your piles of rubbish.’
‘My goodness! Really? How did you come to track it down there, as a matter of interest?’ asked Digby.
‘Annika has a metal detector. She used that. She was certain you had it, so she went in search of it.’ Carla was shrill, her face rigid with rage, her emotions barely under control.
Digby had clicked into one of his more familiar roles. He stood easily, the picture of unconcern. ‘Well, that’s quite amazing,’ he said, throwing an admiring look at Annika. ‘Out of all these hundreds of acres, she managed to locate the thing on the first attempt on a totally groundless suspicion. Miraculous.’
Ant was far less relaxed than his father. The invasion of his home, the loud female voices, the fact of Rufus Blackwood’s death all combined to make his head swim. More than that, he was transfixed by the sight of the necklace, still dangling from Carla’s hand. It was chunky and tasteless and any fool could see was worth umpteen thousand pounds.
Annika replied with a vicious snarl. ‘She knew you’d stolen it. She said so all along.’
Digby turned his calm gaze onto Bronya, and a little smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Ant watched as he gave her a tiny nod, but was at a loss as to what it signified. ‘She knew no such thing,’ Digby contradicted the woman. ‘Let’s try this for a hypothesis. What your hysterical mother knew was that she herself had intercepted the wretched delivery man, signed for the package and hatched a plot to incriminate me and my family in its theft. I dare say you knew all about it yourself. And I dare go on to suggest that you were so impressed by the idea that you extended it to the point where it became a motive for murder. Or am I running ahead too quickly for you?’
Carla, not unlike Ant, was having trouble in following the logic. ‘Motive for murder?’ she screamed. ‘Don’t talk to me about motive for murder. You’ve been wanting us all dead for years. Admit it.’
‘And vice versa, I imagine,’ Digby riposted, with a little circular wave of his hand. ‘None of us has lost any love for the other side. But wanting anybody dead is putting it a little too strongly for us English peasants. I think you’ll find it’s more of a Russian thing.’
Bronya had not uttered a word. Now she addressed her sister. ‘Annika, I don’t believe you can sustain the story about finding the necklace in the way you claim. It might have been sensible of you to consult me first, before putting your plan into action.’
Digby, Ant and Carla took varying lengths of time to absorb these words. Was it, Ant wondered, as great a betrayal as it sounded? Had one of the threesome astonishingly defected to the other camp, without warning? Or had there been warning in that little nod she’d given Digby?
‘C-consult you?’ stammered Annika, who was perhaps the slowest of them all.
‘Bronya? You little bitch – what are you saying?’ screamed Carla. ‘These people stole my husband’s gift to me. They stole it before he could even wrap it up. And he knew it. And now they’ve killed him. Annika—’
‘We did not steal it,’ Ant interrupted loudly. ‘If you ask me, the shock of your husband’s death has unhinged you.’
‘It’s very strange to be out metal detecting in somebody’s garden so early on Boxing Day, you know,’ said Digby, evidently wishing to prolong the confusion. Even for a Russian, was the unspoken implication.
Annika had still not perceived that the game was lost. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I was so angry and puzzled. So I got up, and decided I should search the premises of our family of tenants, who live like tinkers.’
‘Gypsies,’ said Carla. ‘Filthy Gypsies. In Russia, the Gypsies have been eradicated long ago.’
All three women spoke excellent English, but the overtone of something foreign never quite went away.
‘You’d like us to be eradicated, I know,’ said Digby.
‘And I believe the correct term is “Roma”,’ said Ant, suddenly enjoying himself.
‘Whatever you call them, they’re all criminals – like you,’ said Annika. ‘And we have the evidence to prove it.’ Bronya sighed and rolled her eyes. She plainly thought both mother and sister were beyond stupid. For her and Digby, somehow the matter was already settled.
‘We are not criminals. We did not take your gold and we did not kill your husband. I think you’ll find you have to look closer to home for the perpetrator of both crimes,’ said Digby.
‘Be quiet!’ Carla thundered, her contralto voice dropping even lower. ‘As Annika says, there will be evidence. We have cameras
