Death at a Country Mansion Page 17

  “Mr. Hubert Laughton?” said one of them.

  Hubert stood up. “That’s me.”

  “We’re arresting you for the murder of Collin Harrison. You have the right to remain silent.” The rest of the guests stared in horror as the policeman read Hubert his rights.

  “Excuse me, but why are you arresting this man?” asked Greg, going into solicitor mode. “What evidence do you have?”

  “The murder weapon was found in his jacket pocket,” explained one of the officers. “Is that evidence enough for you?”

  “In my jacket pocket?” repeated Hubert, who’d gone deathly pale. “I don’t even know where my jacket is.”

  “It was in the upstairs bathroom. Come on, please. We have to take you in now.”

  Daisy followed Hubert as the policemen led him out of the house and into a waiting police car. The guests had fallen into a shocked silence.

  “Was the knife really found in his pocket?” Daisy asked Paul as the police car drove away.

  “I’m afraid so.” He gave Daisy a pointed look. “And I know you’re going to say anyone could have planted it there, which is true, but we have to act on the evidence.”

  “Something’s not right.” Daisy frowned. “I know Hubert was bankrupt, but I don’t think he’s a killer. The psychology is all wrong.”

  “He’s bankrupt?”

  “Oh, yes. I forgot to tell you. Greg said he filed with his company last week.”

  Paul grimaced. “That’s not going to look good in court. The prosecution will argue he was desperate and so attempted to steal the painting to sell it on the black market. He’d have the contacts to do that.”

  “Yes, but the painting wasn’t stolen. It was hidden. Why would the thief do that?”

  “To come back and get it at a later stage. Perhaps he didn’t want to be caught with it? I don’t know, but to be honest, it doesn’t matter what I think. It will be up to the jury at the trial.”

  Daisy shook her head. “Why kill Collin? What motive could Hubert possibly have?”

  “You saw the fight earlier. Perhaps Hubert was getting his revenge. Collin did very nearly throttle him.”

  “Hubert isn’t a violent man. I’m sorry, Paul. I just don’t see it. If that painting is a fake—and that’s a big if—it would give Collin motive to kill Hubert, not the other way around. Collin wouldn’t want to risk exposure.”

  “Perhaps Collin did threaten him and Hubert reacted in self-defense.”

  Daisy thought about that for a moment. “That would make more sense, but Hubert didn’t look like he’d just killed someone. There was no blood on his hands or shirtsleeves, he wasn’t sweating and didn’t appear nervous. In fact, he was as surprised as everyone else when the police arrested him.”

  Paul sighed. “Daisy, I know you’re trying to help, but the evidence is indisputable. Until we can prove otherwise, the murder weapon was found in his jacket pocket in the bathroom that he admits he went to. It doesn’t really get any clearer than that.”

  Daisy snorted. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  She stalked back into the house. The guests were being allowed to leave now, and a steady stream of black taxicabs had begun to pull up outside the mansion.

  “It’s about bloody time,” grumbled Colonel Snodgrass. “My hip is playing up something terrible.”

  “I’d better call Lucian,” said Floria dismally. She looked shattered. “He’ll be devastated to hear about Hubert. I can’t believe he murdered Mother and Collin.”

  Daisy didn’t know what to say. She kept picturing Hubert’s face as he was arrested. Incomprehension, disbelief, confusion.

  The man had been totally bewildered by what was happening. That wasn’t the face of a guilty person. No, she was very much afraid Hubert had been set up, and very cleverly so. The evidence was indisputable, as Paul had said. The murder weapon found in his jacket pocket. That made all the other circumstantial evidence fall into place. Poor Hubert wouldn’t stand a chance in court.

  She sighed and shook her head, feeling the effects of the day weighing down on her too.

  “I can’t believe it either.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The heat from the sun was already intense when Daisy opened the salon at eight a.m. the following morning. Walking the short distance from her home to Ooh La La had made her perspire. It was going to be another scorching day. The telephone was ringing as she rushed inside. Monday was usually a quiet day, but it seemed everyone wanted to find out what had happened at Brompton Court last night. News of Hubert’s arrest had spread around the village like wildfire, and every available slot in Daisy’s schedule was filled by nine thirty.

  “That’s it. We’re fully booked for today. I can’t squeeze anyone else in,” she told Penny as she penciled a new customer into her lunch hour.

  “Murder is great for business,” said Krish, comb behind his ear, his fingers tapping away on his iPhone. “And my social life. I’ve been inundated with invitations to all the hottest parties in London.”

  Asa wagged her finger at him. “You were Instagram-ming up a storm yesterday, you naughty boy.”

  He grinned. “I’m in talks with The Star for an exclusive. The inside scoop on the murder at Brompton Court.”

  Daisy shook her head. “You are a PR nightmare. I’m sure DI McGuinness wouldn’t want you divulging details of the case to the press.”

  He had the grace to look offended. “Scandal is a lucrative business. They’re offering a fortune for my story. How can I refuse? It’s going to come out anyway, I’m just helping them get the facts straight.” He gave a little pout. “I promise I won’t say anything to upset your Mr. McGuinness.”

  “Hmm . . . ” Daisy supposed he was right. The story was already out there, and with all those publicity-hungry guests at the reception, it wouldn’t be long before it was in every tabloid and magazine in the country.

  Poor Floria. She didn’t need this. Not after the emotion of the funeral and meeting her sisters for the first time. At least they were all in it together. If nothing else, they would know one another fairly well by the end of it. There was nothing like a double murder to break the ice.

  “I heard Hubert accused Collin of faking the Modigliani,” said Mrs. Jenkins, who’d caught the bus from the senior living community on the outskirts of the village to come in for her nine o’clock. How she’d come across that little nugget, Daisy had no idea. “Is it true? I studied art in Florence as a girl.”

  Daisy smiled at the old lady who, despite her advanced years, was as sharp as a pair of scissors. “Yes, he did accuse it of being a fake, but that hasn’t been proven. The police are still looking into it.”

  She scoffed. “What do they know? Modigliani was copied many times. There are reputedly hundreds of forgeries out there. Why, only last year an exhibition in Zürich had to be closed down because the reclining nude was a fake. If the professionals didn’t notice, your police squad aren’t going to be of much use.”

  She had a point, although Daisy liked to think the art fraud department knew what they were doing. “I’m sure they work with experts, Mrs. Jenkins. Art fraud is a very specialized field, as you know. Besides, Collin had the provenance in his study, I saw it with my own eyes.”

  The old lady pursed her lips. “And provenances can’t be forged?” She smiled at Daisy like one would an errant child. “Anyway, dear, I’m sure Mr. Harrison bought it in good faith. He’s a dealer, after all. If it is a fake, it’s likely he didn’t know.” She paused to study herself in the mirror. “I’d like the usual, please, dear.”

  Daisy got to work, but Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t finished. “That Hubert Laughton,” she said while Daisy was setting her hair. “He’s the real deal. I saw him on Antiques Roadshow a couple of years ago, and trust me, he knows his stuff. If he suspects the painting is a fake, I’d tend to believe him.”

  Daisy had just put Mrs. Jenkins under the dryer when a thought hit her. She riffled through her handbag for the scru
nched-up ball of paper containing the telephone number of the art store in Paris, the one she’d found in Collin’s wastepaper basket. It was in here somewhere.

  “Got it!” She pulled it out triumphantly, then went to talk to Krish. He stopped what he was doing.

  “I need you to contact your friend in Paris, the one who works at the Louvre. Could you get him to go to an art store for me? Here’s what I want him to say . . . ”

  * * *

  DI McGuinness was pulling down the photographs from the whiteboard in the Scout hall and placing them in a cardboard box when Daisy arrived.

  “Packing up?”

  The garage door was wide open, letting in as much fresh air as possible, but it was still stiflingly hot inside. The corrugated iron roof retained the heat like a sauna.

  “Unfortunately, yes.” He smiled at her. “Case closed, I’m afraid. We’re going to prosecute.”

  Daisy nodded. “Did Hubert confess?”

  Paul gave her an odd look. “No, of course not. He still maintains his innocence. He said he saw something in the painting that made him doubt its authenticity and confronted Collin about it. That’s the last contact he had with the victim.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, the evidence says otherwise.”

  “Do you believe he’s guilty?”

  Paul shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. My job is to gather the evidence, not make a judgment. The prosecution has enough to take it to court, so that’s the process we have to follow.”

  Daisy looked around her. The nature posters on the walls had been updated and now included ones on survival tactics, first aid and effective communication techniques, but the hall looked and smelled just like it had when she’d been a member. Memories of her time in the Girl Guides flooded back: being awarded her badges at the front of the hall, learning survival skills and laughing and joking with the other girls, most of whom were married with children now.

  “What are you doing here?” Paul took down the last suspect photograph and turned to face her. “Did you come to say goodbye?”

  Daisy smiled. “Actually, I want to ask you to look up something for me, if it’s not too late.”

  “Well, the case is closed, but I might be able to pull a few strings. What is it you want me to check?”

  She told him what it was.

  He pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. “You really think that’s possible?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, but I think we ought to check before we send Hubert to the gallows. It’s something Collin said before he died. It’s been bothering me ever since.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll look into it and get back to you.”

  Daisy nodded. “Thanks, Paul.”

  It had been fun working with him; she’d enjoyed analyzing suspects and discussing the case, more so than she cared to admit. But how to tell someone that without sounding sappy?

  “No problem.”

  He hesitated, like he was about to say something else, but then decided against it. Perhaps he’d had the same inclination as her. Instead, he picked up the box. “That’s the last of it.”

  The moment passed.

  Daisy said goodbye and took off across the meadow toward her house. Behind her, she heard Paul pull down the noisy garage door and lock it, before getting into his car and driving away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “What’s going on?” inquired Floria as Daisy walked into Brompton Court followed by DI McGuinness and Sergeant Buckley. “Carmen’s just arrived in a cab and is in a foul mood.”

  A uniformed police officer remained at the front door, and there was another outside in the police car that had followed Paul and Daisy to the premises.

  Greg had also been summoned, but he didn’t know why. On seeing the police presence, he frowned. He was smart enough to know something was going down. “I have work to do, Detective Inspector,” he said irritably.

  “This won’t take long.” Paul turned to Floria. “Can we get your father downstairs, as well as Violeta and Pepe? I have an announcement to make.”

  “Of course.” Floria left to do as requested, shooting a worried look in Daisy’s direction. A short time later the entire household, including Carmen, Mimi and Donna, were assembled in the parlor. The furniture had reverted back to normal after the reception and someone had even found time to vacuum the carpet. There wasn’t a crumb in sight.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Sir Ranulph tapped his cane on the floor. “I’m not well, you know.”

  “It’ll all become clear in a moment.” Paul studied them each in turn. “I’m sorry to disrupt your day, but some new evidence has come to light that we thought pertinent to share with you.”

  “What new evidence?” asked Floria, signs of emotional upheaval evident in her face. Dark shadows framed her normally sparkling eyes, and her skin looked tired and sallow. Daisy’s heart went out to her.

  “This case has been a riddle from the start,” Paul began. “First, we thought it was Sergio, Tatiana’s boyfriend, who murdered Serena. The most obvious scenario was that he let himself in with Tatiana’s key with the purpose of stealing the painting, but then Serena woke up and caught him in the act. In a panic, he hit her on the head and pushed her over the balustrade to her death. We’ve since discovered this wasn’t the case.”

  “But he did break in,” whispered Violeta.

  “Oh yes, he did. He admitted as much, but then he saw Serena lying at the foot of the stairs and panicked. He decided the best thing to do was to get the hell out and pretend he’d never been here at all. So he carefully locked the front door and ran away. Indeed, the evidence—or rather, lack thereof—seems to support this.”

  Eight pale faces, excluding Daisy’s, whose was rather flushed, stared back at him.

  “We realized that whoever had committed the murder must have had intimate knowledge of the mansion. They knew where the priest hole was, for example, and they must have had a key to the premises.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting we had anything to do with it,” gasped Violeta. Her husband laid a calming hand on her shoulder.

  “No, of course not,” said Daisy hurriedly.

  “Even though you did have motive,” interjected Paul. “Your husband needs an operation, so you needed money.”

  “But . . . ” interrupted Pepe.

  Paul held up a hand. “I know Serena paid you off for keeping quiet about her suicide attempt, which means you didn’t have to steal the painting.”

  “Suicide attempt?” Floria mumbled, uncomprehending. “What suicide attempt?” She glanced at Daisy and then the inspector. “I don’t understand . . .?”

  “We wouldn’t have resorted to theft anyway.” Violeta looked horrified. “What kind of people do you think we are?”

  “It was a logical thought process, Violeta,” explained Daisy. “He meant no harm by it.”

  Violeta nodded, although the consternation hadn’t left her face.

  “What suicide attempt?” Floria said, louder this time. There was a hysterical edge to her voice. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Violeta wrung her hands. “Serena overdosed on sleeping pills about a month ago. Pepe found her lying in the fountain. She would have drowned if he hadn’t saved her.”

  Floria spun around. “Is it true, Pepe? You saved her life?”

  He nodded sadly. “Not that it did much good.”

  Floria put her hand over her mouth. “I had no idea.” She sunk down on a wooden-backed chair that stood against the wall. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”

  “We didn’t want to worry you,” whispered Violeta. “And Serena swore us to secrecy.”

  Paul didn’t want to lose his train of thought. “Then there was you, Carmen.”

  Carmen glanced up from her position on the chaise longue. “Qué?”

  “You lied to us,” said Daisy softly. “You said you flew over to London the day before the funeral when, in fact, you flew in a week ago.”

&nbs
p; Donna gasped, while Mimi glared at Carmen. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Looking down your nose at everyone when in fact you’ve been lying through your teeth.”

  Carmen’s features tightened, and she looked like she was about to pounce.

  “You had ample motive,” added Daisy quickly, bringing the attention back to her. “God knows you felt abandoned by Serena. She left you when you were a baby and handed you over to your father to raise. She refused to support you, to have anything to do with you.”

  Anger flashed across Carmen’s face. “She left me to grow up in poverty when she had so much money she didn’t know what to do with it all.”

  “I’m sorry you had such a hard time growing up,” said Daisy, feeling pity for the girl.

  Carmen scowled. “It’s none of your business.”

  “But it is our business,” cut in Floria. “You are part of this family now, whether you like it or not. Don’t you see, Serena abandoned us all.”

  Carmen scoffed. “She didn’t abandon you. Look at this place. You have everything you want.”

  “Yes, she did,” Floria got to her feet. “She palmed me off on nannies and au pairs from the moment I was born. I never saw her. She didn’t speak to me. In fact, I had no idea who she really was. My parents traveled constantly; they were always on tour. Then, when I was eleven, she sent me off to boarding school in another county forty miles away, and it was full-time boarding, so I wasn’t even allowed home on weekends.”

  “It’s true,” sniffed Violeta. “I felt so sorry for you, poor lamb. Every holiday you floated around this place by yourself, and when your mother was home she’d screech at you for getting underfoot.”

  “I didn’t have it any better than you.” Floria fought back tears. “True, I had money, but no love, no affection. I may as well have been part of the furniture.”

  “Oh, Floria.” Sir Ranulph made a strangling noise. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. I should have realized. Your mother was a selfish woman; she cared about nothing other than her singing and I . . . well, I suppose I was so caught up in her career that I didn’t think about anything else.”