Death at a Country Mansion Page 10

  “Can we change the topic, please?” All this talk of Paul was making her uncomfortable. “The man might be married for all we know.”

  “Oh, he’s not.” Krish waved the hair dryer at her. “I asked my friend Craig, whose sister works at Guildford Police Station, and she said he’s single. All the girls secretly fancy him, but he shuts them down. No one can get close.” He gave Daisy a knowing grin. “Perhaps you’ll be the lucky lady to break through that hard, macho exterior.”

  “Okay, enough of this.” Daisy put on her boss voice. “Back to work, everyone.”

  Floria laughed. “You’re so predictable, Dais. By the way, you’re more than welcome to stay at Brompton Court too. You know that, right?”

  “Thanks, hun, but I’m so close it’s hardly worth it.” She hesitated, then asked, “Will you move back there permanently if you inherit the place?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted as Daisy rubbed some gel onto the ends of her freshly cropped curls. “My job is in the West End, so it’ll be one hell of a commute, and I’ve got my little flat. I think I’ll probably just come back on weekends. My father might move back now that Mother’s gone. He is getting on a bit, so it’ll be good to have him in the country, and Violeta and Pepe will be there to look after the place.”

  “Speaking of the Bonellos.” Daisy admired her handiwork and kept her voice light. “Did you know about Pepe’s condition?”

  “No.” Floria frowned in alarm. “What condition? Is he ill?”

  “He’s got rheumatoid arthritis in his hands. It’s crippling him, apparently. Ruth from the doctor’s office says he needs an operation, but the waiting times are astronomical.”

  Floria’s eyes widened. “I had no idea. Poor Pepe. I wonder why Violeta didn’t mention it.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. She must have known you’d want to help.”

  “She probably didn’t want to bother me with it, what with Mother’s murder and all that.”

  Daisy gnawed on her lower lip. There was no easy way to say this. She decided to just come right out with it. “You don’t think they would have tried to steal the Modigliani, do you? To pay for his medical bills?”

  “No!” gasped Floria, jumping out of her chair. “I can’t believe they’d resort to something like that. They’re not criminals. They’d come to me, first, surely?”

  Daisy said softly, “You said yourself, anyone could be capable under the right circumstances. What if they had no other way of financing the operation? What if they meant to steal the painting and not harm anyone, but then Serena caught them in the act?”

  Floria shook her head so violently that Daisy put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “No, I’m sorry, Daisy, I won’t believe it. I’ve known them most of my life and they wouldn’t do something like this, not even if they were desperate.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, it was just a thought.” She didn’t want Floria getting too upset. The Bonellos were a sweet, elderly couple, after all, and Violeta had been so kind to Floria over the years. “I can’t see them resorting to murder either. I just mentioned it because they are the only other people who have a key, and we know the locks weren’t forced.”

  “You mean apart from me, all of Serena’s ex-husbands, and the maid? Any one of our keys could have been stolen or copied. Or perhaps Mother let in her killer? It’s quite possible she knew him or her.” Daisy had to admit those were all possibilities. “You haven’t lost your key, have you?”

  “No, it’s right here on my key fob. I’ll ask Father if he’s still got his, although I suspect he misplaced it years ago. He’s a bit scatty like that.”

  Daisy raised her eyebrows. “The murderer could have got hold of it somehow. Please ask him as soon as you can, Floria.”

  “I will.” She paused to look at her reflection.

  “See, not dowdy in the slightest,” joked Daisy.

  Floria grinned, her natural exuberance returning. “If I do end up in Hello! magazine, at least I’ll have great hair!”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you,” said Daisy, feeling guilty about shocking her friend. Floria was such a loving person, she couldn’t see the bad in anybody. “But we have to consider all options, no matter how unlikely.”

  “I know.” Floria sighed. “That’s what I love about you, Dais. You’re so logical. I’d make a terrible detective. I’m always too willing to believe people.”

  “That’s what I love about you.” Daisy smiled. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “You know, DI McGuinness is going to be looking at all Serena’s ex-husbands as potential suspects, so if we can establish where their keys are, that will be a good start.”

  Floria nodded. “I’m on it. Don’t worry.”

  Krish chimed in, “Naughty Collin was shacked up with his mistress in Lourmarin and Niall was chasing horseflesh in Argentina, so you can rule them out.”

  “We still need to know where their keys are,” persisted Daisy.

  Floria put her hands on her friend’s shoulders. “I’ll call and ask them tonight. Will that make you happy?”

  Daisy broke into a bright smile. “You know it will.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sun was a deep orange disc low in the sky when Daisy said goodbye to her last customer. The High Street basked in a soft, amber glow that radiated off the church spire like a shimmering sign from above. It had been a busy day, and with Krish having the afternoon off to go shopping for his boyfriend in central London, they’d all had to pull their weight. She and Penny had split Krish’s customers between them, many of whom were disappointed he wasn’t there as it meant they weren’t able to catch up on all the latest gossip. For many of her older clients, the hair salon was their only social outing of the day. The neighborhood care bus collected them outside their sheltered and semisheltered apartments and drove them into the village to do a spot of shopping and get their hair done before taking them back home again. They loved Krish, who made them laugh with his outrageous stories.

  Daisy set about cleaning up the salon. It was her evening ritual. She would turn up Classic FM, sweep the floors, wipe the surfaces and polish the mirrors before spraying jasmine- and lilac-scented air freshener around the room. When the place was spotless, she’d go out the front, locking the door behind her, a feeling of pride in her chest. Asa was kept busy sweeping, making tea and coffee and being the general dogsbody throughout the day, so Daisy usually let her go after her last hair wash. It suited Daisy, because she valued the quiet time at the end of the day in which to unwind and compose her thoughts. It might sound strange, but she found the cleaning therapeutic. She was polishing a mirror, window cleaner in one hand, a paper towel in the other, when there was a knock on the door. Turning, she saw the broad silhouette of Paul McGuinness standing outside. His features were obscured, but the sun had turned the ends of his hair a pinkish copper, and with his strong profile and square outline, he looked like the hero in a Japanese anime cartoon.

  Whipping off her rubber gloves, she rushed to let him in.

  “Hi, Paul, come in. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

  “You have?” There was a definite sparkle in his eyes.

  “Oops, that didn’t come out right.” She flushed and turned away to hide it. “I meant, I’ve been thinking about the case all day. Did you manage to speak to Collin?”

  He laughed and shrugged off his jacket, throwing it onto the arm of the sofa. “Yes, I interviewed Collin this morning, and he confirmed he was with his mistress, Bernadette. They met in Marseilles on Saturday night and spent the weekend, including Monday and Tuesday, together. He had no idea his wife had been murdered until the French authorities contacted him last night at the guesthouse.”

  Daisy turned down the radio to a sensible volume. “So he’s in the clear, then?”

  Paul sat on the sofa, stretching out his legs in front of him. With his six-foot-plus height and wide shoulders, he made it look absurdly small.

  “It looks like it. Bernadette
backed up his story, and the owner of the guesthouse confirmed they checked in on Saturday evening at eight twenty.” He sighed. “There’s no way he could have murdered Serena.”

  Daisy toyed with the idea of sitting down, but then perched on the arm of the sofa instead. There didn’t seem to be much room next to him. “So, where does that leave us?”

  His stormy gaze met hers. “With not much to go on, unfortunately. Did you manage to find out who still has keys to the house?”

  She’d texted him earlier that day to say Floria was doing some digging. “All Serena’s ex-husbands had keys at one point, and as far as I can tell, none of them returned them after their divorces. Silly, really, when you consider how many antiques and works of art there are in that mansion.”

  Paul shook his head. “You’d think someone with Serena Levanté’s wealth would be more careful.”

  Daisy straightened her dress and hoped she didn’t smell of detergent. “Serena wasn’t like that. All she cared about was her music. Monetary things weren’t important to her. The valuable paintings were mostly acquired by Collin, except Serena’s portrait, which was a commission, and the Stubbs Sir Ranulph gave to Floria. The antique furniture was Hubert’s doing; he’s in the antiques business, has a little shop off Portobello Road. I don’t think Serena ever decorated. Besides, those men were all part of her life at some point; she probably trusted them.”

  Because that’s what women did.

  She thought back to Tim, who’d torn her heart to shreds when he’d disappeared out of her life two years before with no warning.

  Nothing.

  Not even a parting glance.

  One day she’d got back from work and he was gone. Just like that. Taking all his belongings with him.

  But she didn’t want to dwell on that now. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and looked at Paul. He was handsome in a rough, no-nonsense sort of way, with that strong jawline covered in stubble and his unusual gray eyes. His hair was messy, like he’d run his hand through it too many times and now it had given up trying to behave and stood on end of its own accord.

  Daisy continued, “She wouldn’t have expected any of them to rob her, let alone kill her.”

  “Still, we have to check.”

  Expect the unexpected. It was a good motto to live by.

  “I asked Floria to look into it. As you know, Niall—Serena’s second husband, the horse breeder—was in Argentina at the time of her murder. He’s just got back and says he still has his key but hasn’t used it since he lived there, which was over a decade ago.”

  “Are we sure it hasn’t been used by anyone else?”

  “He keeps it in his safe, and Floria made him check it was still there. I think we can scratch him off the list.”

  Paul rubbed his stubble, which made a scratchy noise that for some odd reason reminded her of living with a man, with Tim. It wasn’t a sound you often heard living alone.

  “Okay, what about the others?” asked Paul.

  She flicked her hair out of her face. “Hubert—Serena’s third husband, the antique dealer—lives in Notting Hill with his partner, Lucian.” At Paul’s raised eyebrow, she explained, “He was always gay, although not overtly so, but it’s bizarre Serena didn’t cotton on sooner. They were party buddies and he helped her through a rough patch, so I think she felt indebted to him, which in her muddled brain translated into love, but that’s a mystery we’ll probably never solve.”

  “His key?” Paul cut to the chase.

  “He has it in his bureau drawer. He checked, and it was there. Again, it hadn’t been used since he lived at Brompton Court.”

  “I hope your friend is going to get the locks changed,” he muttered. “It’s a nightmare, having all these spare keys around. Anyone could waltz in at any time and steal any number of things. I saw that Stubbs you mentioned and a nice little Pissarro at the house the other day and I’m guessing they aren’t fakes?”

  “You know your artists,” remarked Daisy.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “It’s not every day you meet a cultured police detective who appreciates art and speaks French like a native.”

  He avoided her gaze. “What about Sir Ranulph?”

  Daisy shrugged. “His is the only key we can’t locate. As you know, he lives in the south of France, near Avignon, and has no idea what happened to the key. He thinks he may have left it at Brompton Court when he moved out, which was over fifteen years ago. He hasn’t used it since. Every time he visits, he’s let in by the housekeeper.”

  Paul frowned. “We’ll have to search the house for the missing key. It might be among Serena’s things, or in a drawer with other keys, that sort of thing.”

  “Knowing Sir Ranulph, it could even be at his house in France, buried among boxes of music scores or something. We might never find it.”

  “It’s worth a look, don’t you think? If we do find it at Brompton Court, we can focus on other lines of inquiry. If we don’t, well, that could be how the killer got in.”

  “And you don’t think Serena let her killer in herself?”

  He gnawed gently on his lower lip. Daisy found the gesture quite sensual and averted her eyes. “I can’t see it,” said Paul. “She was drunk, still in her outfit from earlier that day, and besides, she fell from the landing. Why would she let him in and go back upstairs to the bedroom, only to be pushed over the balustrade?”

  “It could have been someone she was taking to bed with her.”

  Paul stared at her for a long moment until Daisy felt a smidgeon of heat steal into her cheeks. Then he pursed his lips. “In that state? At that hour? I supposed it’s possible, but unlikely. Would you welcome a man into your bed after midnight when you’d been drinking all day? Without changing your clothes, or even washing your face or reapplying your makeup?”

  Daisy gazed at Paul but didn’t reply. If she liked someone enough, she might. Dutch courage and all that. But somehow, she didn’t think that was the case here. Paul was right. Serena was in no fit state to welcome a male guest.

  She took a deep breath. “Of course, we’re assuming Serena’s killer was a man.”

  Paul looked pensive. “I am keeping an open mind on that score, but the probability is that it’s a man.”

  There was a small pause, then Daisy said, “How do you propose we find this missing key?”

  “I can send in a team to search the place.”

  “Oh no,” said Daisy hastily, horrified at the thought of a search team messing up the house before Floria was inundated with guests. “Why don’t you let me and Floria handle it? The memorial is on Friday, and I know Floria’s got the cleaners in today and tomorrow.”

  “Cleaners will complicate matters,” Paul remarked, the irritation evident in his tone. “They shift things around, destroy evidence.”

  “I know, but Floria has to get the place ready for her guests.” As cultured as he was, he wouldn’t understand the intricacies of managing an eight-bedroom mansion. To be fair, not many people would. The only reason Daisy knew what was involved was because she’d been friends with Floria for a long time, and she’d helped prepare for countless garden parties, soirées and impromptu concerts. Close friends and international guests expected to stay over, and the bedrooms had to be immaculate. That meant beds made up with fresh linen, pillows plumped, towels put out and fireplaces cleaned.

  Eight times over.

  Then, there was the food to order, not only for the reception, but to feed the guests who were staying on the property. Caterers were providing the eats after the memorial service, but Violeta had to order in extra essentials like bread, milk and eggs for breakfast and stock up on tea and coffee and little nibbles, should any of the guests get hungry. Including her half sisters and Sir Ranulph, Floria would have a full house. Lord and Lady Balfour expected a room because they were old friends of Serena and Sir Ranulph, who now lived in Monaco. Colonel Snodgrass was always allocated a room at Serena’s parties because he was too
old and doddery to get home by himself, particularly after a bottle of Collin’s fine brandy. The final houseguest was a dazzling mezzo-soprano from America who Serena used to know but, according to Floria, was always more of a rival than a friend. Brompton Court would be packed to capacity.

  A gardening service had to be bought in to help Pepe mow the extensive lawns, clean the fish pond and trim the herbaceous borders. It was a mammoth project, and one Floria usually handled with aplomb; however, having a police search team on the premises would throw her right off.

  “We’ll make sure we do a thorough search, including Serena’s bedroom and office, which is where the key is most likely to be, if it’s in the house at all.”

  He grunted. “I suppose that’ll have to do. Let me know when you’re there. I’d like to join you. Forensics have processed the study, the hall and the staircase, and we’ve done a general search of the premises, but we weren’t looking for a missing key at that point.”

  “Okay, sure, and speaking of guests, did you manage to track down any of the sisters today?”

  He looked smug. “I did indeed.”

  Daisy pursed her lips. “Do tell.”

  “Mimi arrived first thing this morning. I met her at Heathrow. I thought I’d combine British hospitality with a quick, informal interview.”

  Daisy was impressed. He didn’t miss a beat.

  “She was very tired and didn’t say much, but I got the feeling she was overwhelmed by the course of events. She hadn’t known she was adopted, a fact she was quite upset about. I will have to question her again more fully once she’s acclimatized.”

  “What was she like?” asked Daisy, wondering whether the other sisters were anything like Floria.

  “Angry.” He gave a little shrug. “One of those rebellious types, I think. She has short hair with silver streaks in it and an eyebrow ring, if that helps.”

  Daisy was surprised. “Not at all like Floria, then?”

  He shook his head. “No. I couldn’t see any obvious similarities. She’s shorter, dark-haired with an olive complexion, not an English rose like Floria. They couldn’t be more different, in fact.”