Death at a Country Mansion Read online

  “That’s interesting,” mused Daisy. “What about Donna?”

  “I saw her this afternoon. She’s staying in Esher at a local bed-and-breakfast. She’s lovely-looking but very reserved, didn’t offer up much in the way of useful information. Her parents had told her she was adopted, but they didn’t know Serena Levanté was her birth mother. Apparently, it said something different on the birth certificate.”

  “So, Serena changed her name,” said Daisy. “I suppose it’s not that unusual. A lot of celebrities do it.”

  “She seems nice, albeit a bit quiet, and her eyes were red, like she’d been crying.”

  “Did you ask her what was wrong?” Daisy wanted to know.

  He shrugged. “I asked her if anything was the matter, but she said she was fine, and I didn’t want to push.”

  “And you call yourself a detective,” Daisy tutted.

  “My skills lie more on the interrogation side,” he said, a grim expression on his face. “I’m not very good at coercing information out of distraught females.”

  “Thank goodness you have me,” breathed Daisy.

  At that moment Paul’s stomach rumbled. He stood up. “I’d better get something to eat before I head home. Can you recommend a restaurant or takeaway close by? Something cheap and cheerful?”

  Daisy smiled. “I can do one better. I’ll show you. Just let me grab my jacket.”

  She’d have to come in early tomorrow morning to straighten up. The cleaning materials were still lying on the coffee table, along with her rubber gloves and wads of used paper towels. “There’s a small Italian place around the corner that does amazing pizza and pasta, and a passable pinot grigio.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  As they strolled down the street, Daisy asked about Carmen. It was getting dark and the streetlights had already been switched on. She loved the old-fashioned design of the lampposts, unchanged since Victorian times. She often pictured the lamplighters on their ladders, lighting the wicks at dusk and extinguishing them at dawn. This being a quintessential English village, most of the shops had closed for the day so the High Street was quiet, with only a handful of people still scattered about.

  Paul gave an exaggerated sigh. “She’s a tough nut to crack. I went to her room at the Hilton in Park Lane, but she wasn’t in. Her phone went straight to voice mail. If she’s in the country, she doesn’t want to be contacted.”

  “The Hilton in Park Lane.” Daisy raised an eyebrow.

  “I believe it’s in her boyfriend’s name. He’s some hotshot fashion photographer.”

  “Interesting, I wonder if he’ll be at the memorial service too?”

  Paul shrugged. “I’ve no idea, but I’ll have to question her at some point. She can’t avoid me forever.”

  “It’s up here,” said Daisy as they turned a corner and walked up a small side street. Up ahead, a red awning could be seen hanging over an illuminated window complete with flowering window boxes and hanging strands of garlic. The sign above the door read “Nonna Lina.” Inside looked warm and inviting.

  “Very quaint,” he commented, opening the door and standing back so Daisy could enter.

  “Buona sera, Cristiano,” sang Daisy once they were inside. A middle-aged man with a mop of dark hair graying at the temples came out to greet them. He kissed Daisy on both cheeks. “Mia caro, how are you?”

  “I’m well, thanks. How is Greta?”

  His hands traced the shape of a big ball in front of his stomach. “She’s about to pop, I think.”

  Daisy laughed, then turned to Paul, who was waiting patiently behind her. “This is my friend, Paul.” She purposely left off his title; he probably didn’t want to be seen as an officer of the law when he went out for a casual bite to eat. “Greta, Cristiano’s wife, is pregnant with their fifth child.”

  Impressed, Paul shook his hand. “Congratulations.”

  Cristiano beamed. “Ah, Commissario. You are the policeman working on the murder of Señora Levanté? I heard all about you.” He came in closer. Paul could smell the smoke from the pizza oven on his clothing. “Tell me, do you know who killed her?”

  So much for that. It seemed the mystery of Serena’s murder had gripped the entire community. He shot Daisy an awkward grin. “That’s right. Pleased to meet you, and no, not yet, but we’re working on it.”

  “Such a voice!” He kissed his fingertips. “My mama says not even Cecilia Bartoli can sing like that.”

  Daisy raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite a compliment coming from Mama Lina.”

  Cristiano nodded seriously. Then he gestured to a table. “Please, sit down and I will bring you some wine. You like the usual?”

  Paul tried but failed to hide a smirk.

  “I come here a lot,” Daisy muttered, sitting down at a table for two next to a wall covered in a massive, hand-painted mural of Napoli. Mount Vesuvius stood majestically in the background behind the town, while the Bay of Naples glistened invitingly in the foreground.

  “Evidently.” He sat, turning his body at an angle so his long legs wouldn’t touch hers under the table.

  They ordered the specialty pizza, which consisted of salami, avocado, cherry tomatoes and a sprinkling of sesame seeds, and drank the house wine while they waited. She noticed Paul only had half a glass, which he sipped slowly.

  “So, where did you learn to speak French so well?” Daisy asked. It seemed a safe topic to start off the conversation.

  “My mother was French,” he said nonchalantly. “We spoke it a lot at home.”

  “That explains it. I knew it was more than school French. I studied it up to GCSE level and I can’t speak it nearly as fluently as you.”

  He shifted in his chair and glanced around the restaurant, as if admiring the decor.

  Daisy studied him over her glass. He seemed defensive all of a sudden, and she got the impression he didn’t like talking about his personal life.

  Who did? she thought grimly.

  Not wanting to make him uncomfortable, she changed the subject and brought the conversation round to the investigation. “Did Collin say why he lied about where he was going? Violeta thought he was in the Bahamas.”

  “Yeah, he admitted he didn’t want Serena to know where he was in case she tried to go after him, so he said he was going to the Bahamas, thinking it would be too far away for her to follow him.”

  “Hmm . . . plausible, I suppose.” There was a pause, and then she said, “I’m thinking out loud here, but is it possible the Modigliani was stolen prior to the murder? I’m not sure Serena would have even noticed if it had gone because she doesn’t go into Collin’s study. He keeps it locked.”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed. “Are you implying the painting could have been stolen earlier that day, or perhaps even days before we noticed it was gone?”

  “It’s just a thought . . . “ Then she shook her head. “Actually, no. Scrap that. Violeta would have noticed if it wasn’t there.”

  “If she went into the study.”

  “I’ll ask her, shall I?” Daisy dug in her handbag for her phone. At that minute the pizzas arrived. They smelled fantastic. Cristiano smiled gleefully and told them to enjoy before rushing back to the kitchen. The taverna was filling up now with a constant stream of patrons filing in through the door.

  “Yes, ask her,” said Paul, before grabbing a slice and taking an enormous bite. “This is seriously good.” He popped the rest of the slice into his mouth.

  Daisy put her phone on the table and took a slice herself. She was starving too, and no one made pizza quite like Cristiano and his brother, Guido, who was the chef. After a couple of slices to satisfy her hunger, she wiped her hands on a napkin, had a sip of wine and picked up her phone.

  At that same moment, the surface lit up and it began to ring.

  “Typical,” she muttered, glancing at Paul. “It’s Floria. I’d better get this.”

  She answered, then listened intently, her brow twisting into a frown.

  �
��He’s here,” she said, her voice low. “I’ll let him know.”

  “What’s wrong?” Paul put the slice he was about to eat back down on the plate. “Has something happened?”

  Daisy blinked at him, a cascade of thoughts tumbling through her mind.

  How? Why?

  It didn’t make sense.

  Paul leaned forward, his eyes wide. “Daisy? What is it?”

  She stared back at him.

  “The Modigliani’s been found.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was a cold, dark night with no moon to speak of, and their previous lighthearted mood seemed to have dissipated, along with the warmth of the day. Paul drove them up the winding drive toward Brompton Court, his black BMW handling the curves with ease. Although the house was lit up, the woods at the bottom of the garden looked sinister and impenetrable. Daisy suppressed a shudder. “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” she murmured.

  Floria let them in, her face flushed from the discovery. “Oh, Daisy. Violeta is in a state. She found the Modigliani in the priest hole under the pantry. Who could have put it there?”

  “Someone who knew the house intimately,” growled DI McGuinness. “May I see it?”

  “Of course.”

  Floria led them through the entrance hall where Serena had died to the large, rustic kitchen with its wooden ceiling beams and terra-cotta-tiled floor. Violeta sat hunched at the kitchen table, shaking her head.

  “I don’t understand,” she kept repeating.

  Floria put an arm around her. “Violeta is in considerable shock.”

  Paul stood beside the table. “Where is the painting now?”

  “It’s still in there,” said Floria, nodding toward the pantry. “We haven’t touched anything in case you wanted to dust for fingerprints.”

  Paul gave a small grunt of approval. “There’s a forensic technician on the way. Can I see the hiding place?”

  Floria showed him into a spacious pantry filled with well-stocked shelves containing everything from baking ingredients to cured ham and bottles of pickles and caviar. The light was bright because there were no windows and the walls were made of thick stone, which meant it was considerably colder in this room than anywhere else in the house. She bent down and pointed beneath the bottom shelf, which was at knee level. Paul crouched down and saw a gaping hole about a meter wide by half a meter tall. It wasn’t visible from a standing position, the bottom shelf effectively hiding it from view.

  “That’s the priest hole,” she explained. “It’s always kept shut and we only use it to store backup supplies like flour and sugar. Violeta was about to bake several cakes for the reception, so she opened it, and that’s when she discovered the Modigliani.”

  Peering into the black hole, Paul could just about make out the glimmer of a gilded frame. The painting itself was in darkness; however, when Floria stood up, a shaft of light fell on the canvas and illuminated an angelic, oval face that stared up at him through the darkness. He wobbled in surprise. Daisy, who was peering over his shoulder, whispered, “She’s beautiful.”

  Paul stood up, his knees complaining with a loud click. “We’d better wait for forensics.”

  “It’s eerie seeing her lying there in the dark, isn’t it?” Floria shivered. “Almost like she’s begging to be rescued.”

  Paul didn’t comment. He stalked out of the pantry and back into the nice, warm kitchen.

  “How about some coffee?”

  “I’ll make it,” said Daisy, glad for something to do.

  Paul sat down at the table opposite Violeta, who seemed to have recovered a bit. Floria was holding her hand.

  “Can you talk me through what happened?” he asked the housekeeper.

  She looked up. “I wanted to make a panettone for tomorrow when the girls arrive. It was Serena’s favorite, you know. I’d run out of flour, so I opened the compartment to get some more. That’s when I saw it. Gave me quite the fright, staring back at me like that. I thought I’d seen a ghost.”

  The pale face on the painting did look extremely ghostlike, staring out of the gloom. Paul could sympathize. It would have given him a fright too.

  “And you didn’t touch it?”

  Violeta shook her head. “No. It took me a minute to figure out what it was, then I called Floria.”

  “I was upstairs settling Father into one of the guest rooms,” Floria explained. “We’ve had the cleaners here all day, so the place is livable again.” She flashed Daisy a smile. “My sisters arrive tomorrow, so I wanted to get the house shipshape.”

  Daisy put down four steaming cups of coffee on the table, along with the milk carton and a sugar bowl. “Are you staying here as well?” Paul directed his question to Floria.

  “Yes, it’s easier to organize everything from here, and I’ve taken two weeks’ compassionate leave from work. I’m in my old room in the east wing; that’s where most of the guest rooms are. The west wing has been converted into Mother’s suite, which is actually three rooms if you count her dressing room and office, and then there’s Collin’s study.”

  Paul raised an eyebrow. “Not short of space, are you?”

  Floria smiled indulgently. “You’d be surprised. We’ll have a full house this weekend.”

  Daisy poured a little milk into her coffee. She noticed Paul drank his dark and strong. No milk or sugar. It suited his personality.

  Floria turned to him and asked, “Did you meet my sisters today? I know Daisy said you were going to try to interview them.”

  Paul nodded. “I met two of them, yes.”

  “And?” Floria gazed at him hopefully. It was clear she was desperate for information.

  “Mimi was tired from the flight, so I didn’t speak to her for very long. I just gave her a lift to her hotel. She seems very nice.”

  “And Donna?”

  “She was fairly reserved, although she also seemed very nice.”

  Daisy sighed. Nice? That was all he had to say?

  Paul really wasn’t very good at this.

  “Mimi is short, with dark hair and an eyebrow ring,” she cut in, giving Paul an exasperated look. “While Donna is beautiful, but a bit quiet. Those were your first impressions, weren’t they?”

  Paul seemed happy for Daisy to elaborate, so she continued. “And neither knew Serena was their birth mother. They were both still in shock at hearing the news.”

  “What about Carmen?” Floria wanted to know.

  Paul shrugged. “Couldn’t get hold of her. She seems to be off-the-grid right now, but we’ll track her down at the funeral tomorrow.”

  They discussed the Modigliani for a while, then Paul put down his empty coffee cup. “While we’re here, we may as well have a quick look for that key.”

  “What key? You mean Father’s lost key?” asked Floria.

  “Yes, you mentioned he might have left it here at some point,” said Daisy. “Do you know where Serena would keep any spare house keys?”

  “In the hall cabinet,” said Violeta immediately. “There’s a drawer containing all the spare keys.”

  “I’ll have a look.” Floria got up and left the kitchen, Daisy right behind her.

  They rummaged through the drawer, but apart from Serena’s set, which had a diamanté pendant on it in the shape of a music note, they didn’t find any others.

  “It doesn’t look like it’s here.” Floria blew a strand of hair off her forehead. “Could it be anywhere else, Violeta?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I put all the keys I find in here.”

  “What about Serena’s bedroom or office?” asked Daisy.

  Violeta shook her head. “She always leaves her drawers open, so I put her things away and close them again. There are no keys in there; I’m sure of it. But of course, you are welcome to look yourself.”

  “Perhaps I’ll go up and have a quick peek,” said Floria, who knew Daisy would be itching to do so. “I’ll be right back.”

  She left the others at the foot of th
e stairs. Not five minutes later she was back. “Violeta is right. There’s not a single key in any of Mother’s drawers in her bedroom or study. Maybe Father was mistaken and it is at his house in France?”

  Daisy sighed. “I don’t know, but it would help to find it. That way we can rule out someone stealing it to gain entry.”

  “I doubt we’ll ever find it,” said Floria, crestfallen. “I’m going to have to change the locks, aren’t I?”

  “It would be a good idea,” said Paul. “In fact, I’d get it done as soon as possible.”

  Everyone was thinking the same thing. There was a killer on the loose who may have a key to Brompton Court.

  “Hmm . . . I’ll call the locksmith first thing tomorrow morning.”

  At that moment, a key turned in the lock and the front door opened, making them jump.

  “Is it true? Has it been found?” Collin blustered in, looking disheveled, his hair windswept and the buttons on his jacket done up incorrectly.

  Paul stepped forward. “Mr. Harrison, please calm down. Yes, it’s true. We’ve located your painting.”

  “Where the hell did you find it?” he bellowed. “Who stole it? Is it damaged? Because if it’s damaged in any way, I swear I’ll sue.”

  “We don’t know that yet, but it was found on the premises.”

  “What? Here, at Brompton Court?” His voice dropped several decibels. “So it never left the property?”

  “No, it seems that whoever stole it, hid it in the priest hole under the pantry,” said Floria, earning herself a stern look from DI McGuinness. “Oops, sorry, wasn’t I supposed to say anything?”

  “I think he’d have preferred to keep the location a secret,” whispered Daisy.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” said Paul gruffly. “Mr. Harrison, we’ve got forensics on the way, so I’m afraid you can’t see the painting yet. Once we’ve analyzed it, you can have it back, but right now it’s going to have to go into evidence while we process it.”

  “Can I at least see her?” He wrung his hands. “I’ve been so worried.”

  DI McGuinness sighed. “Okay, you can have a quick peek, but that’s all.” He escorted Collin to the pantry, leaving Daisy and Floria in the entrance hall.