Page 142 of Marble Hall Murders

‘Well, you were the one who gave it to me, so I suppose that makes us quits. It was in that notebook you found at Eliot’s house. He wrote down a lot of things that turned up in the solution to who killed Margaret Chalfont. Lola performing as Mata Hari, for example. And there were two notes that set me thinking. Kenneth Rivers being treated for arsenic poisoning was one of them.’

‘I rather suspect that it was arsenic that killed Miriam Crace,’ Blakeney said.

‘I agree. But it was the other clue that gave everything away. Eliot wrote a question. “Why did Bruno leave?”’

‘I’m not even sure who Bruno was.’

‘He’s a tiny character in the book. He never even appears, but some of the characters talk about him. He was the gardener at the Chateau Belmar. There was also a Bruno at Marble Hall. He was Miriam Crace’s chauffeur and I only know about him because Leylah mentioned him to me when we had drinks at the Savoy. But here’s the thing. When Eliot was writing his book, there was a sort of schizophrenia going on in his head. He was thinking about his own family and his childhood at Marble Hall – and at the same time he was creating a parallel world with Lady Margaret Chalfont and her family at the Chateau Belmar. And I think, when he wrote that question –Why did Bruno leave?– he had forgotten which one he meant.’

‘Bruno the gardener or Bruno the chauffeur.’

‘The gardener didn’t leave. Cedric talks about him in Chapter Eighteen.’

‘So Eliot must have been thinking about his grandmother’s chauffeur.’

‘There was something he knew, or half knew. That’s why the name crops up twice. And it suddenly struck me, I don’t know how, that it was the key to the whole thing.’ I was suddenly exhausted. I sank back into the pillows. ‘But that’s all you’re getting for now, Detective Inspector. There are still a few things I need to work out.’

He moved to the door and opened it. But before he left, he turned to me. ‘Could you do me a favour, Susan, and call me by my first name?’ he asked.

‘I’m not going to do that until the case is over.’

‘And when that might be?’

‘I’d like to see Jonathan Crace and Roland. And I also need to speak to Julia. She teaches under the name of Julia Wilson at a school in Lincoln – she said it was called St Hugh’s. Do you think you could get hold of her for me?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then let’s all meet at Marble Hall. We have to go back to where it all began.’

Back to Marble Hall

It felt odd, returning to Marble Hall in the back of a police car with Wardlaw driving and Blakeney next to her, but they still hadn’t released my MG – it was now being used as evidence against Elaine Clover – and I didn’t fancy the train. We turned into the gates and drove through woodland. For the first time, I noticed the ruined cottage where three children had once hidden themselves away, pretending to be a secret society called the Rogue Troopers to plot the murder of their grandmother. I leaned forward as the main house came into view, its ivy and gabled windows, its wings and towers all bolted together as if in homage to every Golden Age mystery. It all felt completely right. This wasn’t just the end of a journey but the laying to rest of any number of ghosts.

The car park was empty. DI Blakeney had insisted that the house should be closed to the public while we were there and although Jonathan Crace had grumbled – the loss of even a single day’s revenue was a blow to him – he had been forced to comply. The Little Parlour Tea Room was dark. The gift shop was selling no gifts. The entire house had anunwelcoming feel that no tourist would have noticed but which made it truly authentic for the first time since the death of Miriam Crace.

Frederick Turner was waiting for us at the main entrance and as he limped towards the car, more worn out than he had been the last time I came here, who else could I think about but Frédéric Voltaire? I had met Frederick most recently at the party and he had seemed more conciliatory, but I wondered how he would greet me now. I remembered how offended he had been by what he saw as my attack on Miriam Crace and how he had virtually thrown me out. I didn’t think he’d be happy that I’d returned.

I was in the company of two police officers, though, and that made a difference, and as for Frederick, he was there in an official capacity – to open the door and show us in. He was reserved but polite, addressing himself more to Blakeney than to me. ‘The others are waiting for you in the dining room. I’m afraid the kitchens are closed, but there is coffee in in the room. If there’s anything else you need, please let me know. This way …’

As he showed us through the silent house, the lights off and the rooms all empty, it occurred to me that this was how Frederick had lived for the last seven years, still trapped in the same building where he had been brought as a child. He’d once joked that he might come back to haunt the place, but in a way he already did. Everyone else had gone. Miriam was dead and now Eliot was too. What must it be like to endlessly walk these corridors and stairways as the only living memory of what had once been? Every day, when the tourists left and the ticket sellers and the other ladies went home, he would behere on his own, making his way up to the suite of rooms that he still occupied on the second floor. And what then? A box set on Netflix? A pile of books? A ready-prepared dinner-for-one heated up in a microwave? It would have driven me mad.

He showed us into the dining room, which I had already visited but which had made little impact on me when I first saw it. This time, I wondered if Eliot hadn’t used many of its features as inspiration for thepetit salonwhere the Chalfonts had taken their breakfast. There were the same double windows, the antique rosewood dining table, even a grandfather clock. I noticed a painting on the wall: a vase of tulips, which, though clearly not painted by Cézanne, could have been the inspiration for the masterpiece that Eliot had described. There was an unpleasant smell in the air, a mustiness that I’d somehow missed the last time I came here. Perhaps it had been less apparent when the place was filled with tourists. It was the smell of loneliness, of a lifestyle long forgotten.

Three people were waiting for us.

Jonathan Crace was at the head of the table. Of course. Where else would he have chosen to sit? Today, he was wearing a blue blazer and striped tie. They went well with the ginger hair and the signet ring. Roland Crace was next to him, already avoiding my eye and looking nervous … as well he might. The last time we had spoken, I had accused him of cheating on his own brother and he had thrown me out of Eliot’s house. At the other end of the table, keeping her distance from her brother and her uncle, Julia Crace didn’t look at all happy about being dragged down here from Lincoln. I wondered how Blakeney had managed it. Had he threatened to arrest her if she failed to show up?

None of them was pleased to see me. For the moment, they said nothing. But I could tell that Jonathan Crace was furious. He must have been informed that I’d had nothing to do with Eliot’s death, but I’m sure he still saw me as the architect of all his misfortunes.

Frederick Turner hovered at the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said.

‘I think you should stay with us, Mr Turner,’ Blakeney said. ‘You were here from the very start and I’d have said you were very much a witness to what happened.’

‘Are you sure?’ Frederick glanced at Jonathan as if asking his permission to remain.

‘If the police officer wants you to stay, you might as well sit down,’ Jonathan snapped. ‘By the way, the coffee is revolting. I don’t suppose you can make some more?’

There were two coffee flasks and a plate of biscuits on the table. I was reminded of my initial meeting at Causton Books. That could have taken place a century ago.

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