Murder On A Summer's Day Part 12

'I saw him through the landing window. He lit a fire and burned Narayan's clothes and his boots. Unclean, you see. Everything to do with a body is unclean in their eyes. I despise the toad, and I despise every pathetic person in this d.a.m.ned hotel.'

I hoped that she was wrong about the prince's clothes having been burned. But I had a horrible feeling she knew what she was talking about.

'How did he die? They didn't tell me how he died.' She sat up, swaying a little. 'Aren't you going to tell me either? Don't you know?'

'There has to be a post mortem, but I spoke to the doctor.'

'And?'

'The doctor says he would not have suffered.'

'How did he die?'

'From a single gunshot wound to his chest.'

'Who killed him?'

If she had not, earlier, been drunkenly announcing that her maharajah had been murdered, I would not have said what I did. 'It was an accident.'

She clenched her fists. 'What kind of accident?'

Sharing suspicions with a woman who had drunk far too much and already turned violent twice today once throwing the ashtray at the chambermaid and the second time bas.h.i.+ng the valet it seemed a good idea to try and wind her down a little.

'A tragic accident. He was riding, holding his gun. That Arab had a bit of a reputation, but Narayan had wanted it, had chosen it specially.'

'He would.' Her voice was barely audible.

I was winning. 'Possibly the horse baulked, and the gun went off.'

'Oh my G.o.d, poor love.'

I hoped she would not ask me questions, such as where he was found, and why it had taken so long.

'Do you want to see him?'

If she did, I would try and have the valet whisked out of the way on some pretext. Because once the family arrived, her opportunity to say goodbye would be gone.

'No. I don't want to see him lying dead.'

She rubbed her hands over her face that was streaked with tears. Annoyingly, she still looked beautiful. She always would.

I went to the wash basin, wet a face cloth and handed it to her.

She took it. 'Do I look a sight?'

'You could look worse.'

'He chose me. Indira was foisted on him when he didn't know any better.'

She had told me that already.

'He must have thought a great deal of you.'

'He built me a palace. He filled it with the finest of everything. You should see my palace in Gattiawan. He would have married me. They can, you know. They can marry four times, but I would have been the last and the only one. And he would have married me soon. Someone has stopped him.'

I filled a gla.s.s with water and handed it to her.

She sniffed. 'It's water.'

'Tea is on its way.'

'Why have you come?'

This was a bit rich, given that Sergeant said she had been asking for me. 'I wanted to tell you myself, about the maharajah. I'm sorry I was too late.'

The arrival of tea saved my having to tell her I had come to escort her off the premises.

Rachel called out but would not step into the room.

I took the tray from her and carried it to the dressing table. Pus.h.i.+ng aside a pile of jewellery, I set the tray down.

'Have something to steady you. This is best, believe me. I've lost someone, and I know. Don't let people you despise see you like this.'

Given that Lydia seemed to despise most people, and for the present had excluded me from the list, my words did the trick.

It surprises me that after a death, items so taken for granted, such as a fluted white china teapot and cups edged with gilt, turn into objects of delicate beauty, as if seen for the first time.

'There's another reason why I'm here.' I poured two cups of tea. 'Lydia, don't jump down my throat.'

'What reason?'

'Narayan's family are on their way from London. Once they arrive, they will sweep in and be the only ones who matter.' The jewellery caught my eye. 'Don't be here. Take what is yours in case there is any dispute. Go to your people. It's not so far is it?'

'So that's why you're here.' Her hand shook as she took the cup from me. 'That b.l.o.o.d.y wife of his, Indira, when I was in my palace, she sent servants to poison me. Is she coming?'

'Yes.' I a.s.sumed she would be, though I did not know. 'I have asked for the Rolls-Royce to be brought to the front of the hotel, in the hope that you'll agree to stay at your family's farm for now.'

She perked up at the mention of the Rolls. 'They're giving me my car back?'

'Yes.' We were not returning the car to her, but now was no time for details. 'I'll ride with you.'

'Why?'

Think quickly, Kate. 'Because I want to interview Thurston Presthope. He lives at Halton East, I believe. You can point me in the right direction.'

'That rat. I saw through him. Out for what he could get. He borrowed money from Narayan, didn't he?'

'Something like that. I want to make sure what has happened does not release him from his debt.'

'He should pay me. Narayan would want that.'

'I don't want to hurry you, Lydia, but it might be a good idea to pack your jewellery.'

'I will.' She came to life, revived by tea, or thoughts of saving her booty from the Halkwaer family. 'What about my clothes, my furs?'

'I will have them packed and sent on.' I took out my notebook. 'I'll list what you're taking, and what's to follow.'

The sooner she was gone, the better.

And now that I had decided to interview Thurston Presthope, I wanted to lose no more time.

Thirteen.

There is a first time for everything. This was my day for driving a Rolls-Royce. I had to sit forward in the seat to reach the controls.

'It's my car,' Lydia said peevishly. 'Let me drive.'

'Get in. I'm driving.' My patience ebbed. 'It doesn't run on gin.'

'Oh yes it does.'

'Oh no it doesn't.'

She started to laugh, in a drunken slightly hysterical way, but climbed into the pa.s.senger seat.

We set off. I prefer drinkers who drop off to sleep. But I needed Lydia to stay awake, being unsure where along this twisting lane her parents' farm was. The consolation was that I could not go far wrong, following the winding road between Bolton Abbey and Halton East. I noticed farm buildings to our left. 'Is that it?'

'No. That's New Laithe. Stop the car. Let me drive.'

I guessed she wanted to turn up at her family's farm appearing to be in charge. 'You might not stop. I don't want to be taken to London.'

'Don't put ideas in my head.'

'It's better that I drive. Your family will think you have a chauffeuse.'

This remark seemed to please her. 'You're right. Stop the car. I need to sit in the back.'

I stopped the car. She climbed out, stepped in a puddle, cursed, opened the rear door and poured herself in.

I set off.

'There's a cattle grid. You'll see the turn after that.'

In under a mile, the motor grumbled across the cattle grid. Lydia waved in the direction of a muddy, cow-trampled lane. 'Up there.'

Being a farm, the entrance had a gate. We sat, seeing who would give in first and open it. Neither of us wanted muddy feet.

In the end, I capitulated, probably because I wanted to decant her more than she wanted to be decanted. Stepping gingerly, I lifted the rope from the gatepost and pushed the gate. When I turned, I saw that Lydia had changed her mind and clambered into the driving seat.

I gave in gracefully, stepping aside as she drove through the gate, but not far enough aside to avoid being splashed with mud.

'Hop in,' she smiled. 'My brother might drive you back on his motorbike.'

I climbed in beside her, ready to grab the wheel if we looked like hitting a barn.

Unfortunately for her, no one from the house was watching our grand arrival.

She pipped the horn. A woman's face appeared at the window.

Satisfied, she climbed out, clutching her valise of jewellery.

I pa.s.sed Lydia her overnight bag before sliding across into the driving seat.

Now was not the moment to intrude on Mrs Metcalfe.

As Lydia was ushered into the house, I turned the motor around. She called after me, something about her car.

Beyond the gate, I had to pull in by the side of the road when a herd of cows meandered towards me. They were followed by a man of about fifty years old, corduroy trousers tucked into boots, an old army s.h.i.+rt and a tweed jacket that had seen better days. I took a chance.

'Mr Metcalfe?'

'Who's asking?' When he touched his cap, pus.h.i.+ng it back slightly revealing a balding head, the gesture was one of country courtesy, not deference. Here was a man singularly unimpressed by a Rolls-Royce.

'Mrs Shackleton. I've just given your daughter, Lydia, a lift home.'

He gulped slightly at the mention of Lydia's name. His open face betrayed such mixed emotions that I half expected him to say I could take her back where she came from.

Family loyalty prevailed.

'Oh aye?'

'She had some bad news. Her companion was found dead a few hours ago.' I watched him carefully for any sign that he may have had something to do with the prince's death.

'I heard church bells.' He glanced at the herd of cows. They were smart enough to have given me a wide berth and were carrying on without him, udders swinging. 'Where did they find him?'

'In the woods.' That information would already be spreading so I was giving nothing away. 'Mr Metcalfe, I was brought in to investigate the prince's disappearance. This may seem like an impertinence, and irrelevant under the circ.u.mstances, but did he ask for Lydia's hand in marriage?'

He hesitated. 'How can he, when he's already wed?'

'Did he?'