Death at a Country Mansion Read online

  “Thank you, Miss Levanté.” He turned back to the housekeeper. “Could you give me your daughter’s name and address?”

  The Italian woman obliged.

  Daisy waited her turn. Finally, the inspector turned his attention to her. They might not officially be suspects, but he was gazing at her as if she was one. Up close, she noticed his eyes were an unusual shade of dark gray, like storm clouds moments before the rain poured down. “Now you, Miss Thorne. Where were you last night?”

  She pulled her thoughts back to the evening before. “I had to do a group of ladies who were going to see Tom Jones at the racecourse, so I worked late. Once they’d left, I cleaned the salon and got home about eight. I made supper, then watched Midsomer Murders until ten. You know, you remind me a bit of Inspector Barnaby, just a much younger version. You have that same intense look about you.”

  DI McGuinness said wearily, “Can anyone vouch for you?”

  “Actually, yes. Mr. Tiddles escaped, so I helped Moira find him. That must have been at about ten thirty. I was getting ready for bed.”

  “Mr. Tiddles?”

  “Moira’s cat.” At his exasperated expression, she added, “Moira’s my neighbor.”

  “I think I surmised that much, thank you. I’ll have to get her address too, if you don’t mind.”

  “No problem.” She gave it to him, then added, “I’m the cottage on the left, number four, if you have any more questions.”

  “I think that’ll do, thank you.”

  “Daisy’s a wealth of information,” Floria told him with a little nod to back up her statement. “She knows absolutely everyone.”

  Daisy smiled. “It’s true. I own the hair salon in the High Street. It’s the only one in the village. Everyone has been in at some point or another. So, if you want the lowdown on anyone, come and find me. It’s called Ooh La La.”

  DI McGuinness gave her a thoughtful look. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Chapter Three

  The day after they’d found Dame Serena Levanté’s body dawned bright and sunny, as if the universe was trying to forget the dastardly deeds of the day before. Daisy inhaled the fragrant aroma of Mrs. Chandler’s yellow roses as she strolled down the lane toward the village High Street. Gill Chandler won the best garden competition every year, much to Daisy’s immense frustration. As one of the first houses visitors saw as they drove into Edgemead, Daisy always tried to keep her garden in topnotch condition and bursting with color. First impressions were so important. Except, somehow, Gill’s was always better.

  This season was no different.

  Daisy had barely finished weeding and planting her petunias and Gill’s was already in full bloom. She had to admit, it did look extremely pretty.

  Ooh La La, Daisy’s hair salon and pride and joy—even more so than her garden—was situated two-thirds of the way down the High Street, sandwiched between the Meadows Gallery and a small clothing boutique. She’d bought it after graduating from beauty school with the money her parents had given her before they’d emigrated to Spain. Doing it up had been loads of fun. She’d opted for a shabby chic interior with a large chandelier and real wooden floors. Each station had its own gilt-framed mirror and spot lighting, and she served complimentary cups of tea and coffee and, if she’d had time to bake, perhaps a slice of lemon drizzle cake too.

  The basins were situated at the back of the salon, against a wall festooned with elaborate vintage wallpaper, and she’d made certain the reclining chairs for her customers were of the utmost comfort. Being tall, with a long, slender neck, she knew how agonizing leaning back onto a hard basin could be. The result was spectacular, and she was consistently booked up for weeks in advance, although she always managed to squeeze in one or two impromptu appointments during the day.

  Krish was already there when she arrived. Apart from her, he was the only other person who had a key to the salon, and she trusted him implicitly. Krish was Indian and gay, a difficult combination in his culture. Like her, his parents had abandoned him, so he’d put himself through hairdressing school and was now one of the most talented stylists she’d ever met. He was also a terrible gossip.

  “You have to tell me all about Dame Serena’s murder,” he said the moment she walked through the door.

  “Give me a minute to sort myself out.” She laughed, hanging up her bag on the hatstand. “I haven’t even had a coffee yet.”

  “It’s all over the village,” he persisted. “Is it true she was bashed on the head?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She swept into the little kitchenette behind the salon to put the kettle on. Krish followed her like a puppy. If he had a tail, it would be wagging in anticipation. “Do they know whodunit?”

  “Not yet, although the detective in charge seems very capable. DI McGuinness, his name is.”

  “My sources say he’s a bit of a dish. Gruff and manly.”

  Daisy couldn’t help but smile. “I’d have to agree with that.”

  Krish clapped his hands in excitement. “Our very own murder, and a celebrity at that. Of course, it’s horrible for Dame Serena, but quite thrilling for the rest of us.”

  Daisy took her coffee into the salon and sat down on the vintage sofa that her clients used while they were waiting for their appointments. It looked like a 1920s classic, with its turned legs and elegant design, but she’d bought it brand-new from an interior design wholesaler in Cobham shortly after she’d opened. It was the most expensive item in the store, other than the actual equipment, and was one of her favorite pieces. In front of it was a matching footstool that functioned as a magazine rack and newspaper stand. Krish had bought the daily newspapers, like he always did in the morning, and they lay on top of the footstool, crisp and unopened, waiting to be read.

  “We shouldn’t get too excited,” Daisy cautioned as she gazed at Dame Serena’s perfectly made-up face staring up at her from the front page of the Daily Mail. The photograph must have been taken some time ago. Dame Serena hadn’t looked that good in ages. “The murderer is still out there. It could be anyone.”

  Krish stopped preparing the workstations and gasped, “Do you think we know them? Could they be one of us?”

  Krish considered himself a local, and he practically was now. He lived in a small flat above the newsagent’s—the same one he’d moved into three years ago—and apart from weekend jaunts to London, he was always at the salon. He worked hard, he was a genius in the hair department, and her clients loved him, not least because he had the lowdown on everything from Prince William and Kate’s latest appearance to which celebrities were hooking up on Love Island.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose, but that is for the police to figure out.”

  Asa was next to arrive. The chatty, Afro-Caribbean girl was only eighteen, and Daisy was training her up to be a junior stylist. At the moment, however, she washed customers’ hair and gave them a luxurious head massage before their treatment.

  “I heard about Dame Serena. They say the husband done it.” She plunked down her bag next to Daisy on the floor. Today, her long nails were a sparkly forest green. How she didn’t scalp people with those talons, Daisy had no idea.

  “As far as I know, they haven’t managed to contact Collin yet.” Floria had been asleep when Daisy had left the house this morning, but she had no doubt her friend would pop into the salon to give her an update, if and when she heard anything.

  “Can’t say I blame him. She was a handful. Cheating on him and everything. I heard he caught her at it with that hot Russian musician. Chased him out of the house in his undies. Can you imagine that?” She burst out laughing.

  Daisy gave her a stern look. She’d heard that rumor too, and while scandal surrounding Serena did normally have an essence of truth, it was still just a story. “We don’t know who did it yet, and please take your bag into the back. We can’t have the customers tripping over it.”

  Asa grinned and picked up her bag as Penny, the last of her e
mployees to arrive, sauntered in. “Guess what? I’ve just run into Tatiana, Dame Serena’s maid, and she says the police questioned her all evening about a missing painting. Poor thing’s beside herself.”

  “A missing painting?” Daisy stood up. This was a new development, one that the police hadn’t divulged yesterday. Floria certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about a missing painting. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, she was in pieces. They basically accused her of stealing it. It was quite valuable, apparently. A Mod . . . Mod . . . ” She shrugged, unable to remember the artist’s name.

  “Not the Modigliani?” Daisy was shocked. That piece had been Serena’s favorite, a gift from Collin on their wedding day. Not many people knew of its existence for security reasons. “Quite valuable” was a gross understatement. Apart from its sentimental value, the piece was worth tens of millions of pounds. She remembered Floria saying Collin had acquired it in Tuscany, from an old contessa whose family had owned it for generations.

  Penny clicked her fingers. “That’s it.”

  “Good heavens! Where’s Tatiana now?”

  “She’s gone into Boots. I think she’s looking for eye drops. Her lids are all swollen, poor dear.”

  Penny looked fantastic, as usual. Her flaming red hair was up in a messy bun, tendrils framing her face. She wore the tiniest shorts, which made her smooth, tanned legs appear endless, with a flouncy, bohemian blouse. An out-of-work model, Penny had turned to hairdressing as a way to supplement her income, but the job had become her staple now and she rarely took on new modeling work. “It’s too cutthroat for me,” she’d told Daisy during her interview. “I don’t have the stomach for it.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Daisy dashed out of the store and across the road to Boots. If she could catch Tatiana, she might be able to get a bit more information on the Modigliani. The Russian maid had paid for her items and was wandering down the perfume aisle, a forlorn expression on her face, when Daisy found her.

  “Hello, Tatiana. Do you remember me? I’m Floria’s friend.”

  Tatiana glanced up, and Daisy saw at once she was in a state. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, her cheeks mottled and her usually glossy hair hung listlessly down her back.

  “Oh, yes. Hello.” She sniffed. Daisy took her by the arm and steered her across the road.

  “I know what you need: a nice cup of tea and a wash and blow-dry. That will make you feel like a new person.”

  Tatiana tried to resist. “No, I can’t afford it. I don’t know if you heard, but I’m out of work.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “It’s on the house,” Daisy insisted as she opened the door to the salon. “We open in twenty minutes, so I’ll make you a cuppa while Asa works her magic on your hair.”

  She didn’t give the Russian maid time to object. Asa nodded and got to work, while Daisy made the tea. After a relaxing head massage, Daisy led her to a leather-clad chair. “I’ll dry it for you. Here’s your tea.”

  “Thank you, you’re so nice.” Tatiana looked better already. Her cheeks weren’t so blotchy, and the deer-in-the-headlights look had gone from her eyes.

  “Don’t mention it. We girls have to stick together.” She began to dry Tatiana’s hair using soft, rhythmic motions, and when Tatiana had relaxed into the chair, she asked, “Was it the Modigliani that was stolen from Brompton Court?”

  The fearful look came back. “I didn’t take it.”

  “Oh, I know you didn’t,” Daisy was quick to reassure her. “Don’t worry about that. I’m just shocked it was stolen, that’s all. It was worth so much money.”

  “How much?” Tatiana asked, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

  “Oh, millions,” Daisy replied. “I know one of Modigliani’s reclining nudes sold for over a hundred and fifty million pounds at auction last year. Serena’s wasn’t as well-known as that one, but you get the picture.”

  Tatiana gasped, her eyes out on stalks. “Really? That much? No wonder the police were so concerned. They said it was why Dame Serena was murdered.”

  “A burglary gone wrong?”

  “I think so.”

  That put a different spin on things. Collin wouldn’t have stolen his own painting, even though he’d given it to Serena, unless he was afraid he wouldn’t get it back if they divorced. She thought about that for a moment. It was a distinct possibility, but why now? Why after this fight, when they weren’t even divorced yet? From her understanding, Collin had only announced his intention to divorce Serena the day before her death. No, it was more likely a robber who Serena had caught in the act. How gruesome. A shiver ran unbidden down her spine, and she was grateful for the warmth of the hair dryer in her hand. “Was it DI McGuinness who interviewed you last night?”

  Tatiana’s shoulders tensed up. “Yes, and he wasn’t very nice either. He kept asking the same questions over and over again, like where was I the night of the murder? And could anyone vouch for me?”

  “He asked me that too,” Daisy told her, rolling her long hair around the brush and holding it in front of the dryer.

  Tatiana’s eyes widened. “Really? You were also questioned?”

  “Yes. I arrived shortly after Dame Serena’s body was found. They’re questioning everyone who knew Serena; it’s just procedure.”

  Tatiana looked down at her hands. “I don’t trust the police. In Russia, they are the bad guys.”

  “Our police aren’t like that. Here, they’re the good guys.”

  The look on Tatiana’s face said she didn’t believe that for an instant.

  “So, did you tell them?” Daisy rolled more hair around the dryer.

  “Tell them what?”

  “Where you were the night of the murder? You don’t live on the premises, do you?”

  She scoffed. “Of course not. Serena would never let me, even though there is plenty of room in that old house. I live in Surbiton with my boyfriend, Sergio. I catch the train to work every day.”

  “Ah, I see. So, Sergio can vouch for you, then?” She was fishing, hoping Tatiana trusted her enough to take the bait.

  “Yes, of course. We were home together. He made dinner and I painted my nails. Look.”

  She held out her hands for Daisy to inspect.

  “That’s actually a very good job,” Daisy remarked, admiring the short, neat nails painted in pastel blue. Asa poked her head over Daisy’s shoulder to take a peek too. Nails were her thing. In fact, Daisy had been toying with the idea of adding a nail bar to the salon and letting Asa manage it.

  “What did you have for dinner?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said Sergio cooked. I’m very impressed. My last boyfriend couldn’t cook to save his life.” She gave a sheepish grin.

  Tatiana shrugged. “Sergio’s father is a chef in Poland. We had sirloin steak. Anyway, I told the detective we were home, but I don’t think he believed me.”

  Daisy met her gaze in the mirror. “It doesn’t matter what he believes. If you didn’t do it, you don’t need to worry.”

  Tatiana looked away.

  “I know.”

  Chapter Four

  At midday, Floria snuck into the salon to see Daisy. Immediately, she was swamped by well-wishers and those who were assuaging their curiosity and couldn’t believe their luck that the subject of the latest village gossip was now standing in front of them.

  “So sorry to hear about your mother, Floria,” said Beatrice, the baker’s wife, who was waiting for her hair appointment. “Such a horrible way to go.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Floria, looking around for Daisy. The salon was busier than usual, with a queue of walk-ins and regulars fighting for last-minute appointments. The phone rang unanswered. Both Penny and Krish were elbow-deep in tint and Asa was furiously washing hair, sending suds flying out of the ceramic sink.

  “She’ll be sorely missed,” yelled Mrs. Bryson from under the hair dryer.

  “Such a talent,” said kindly Mrs. Robbins, who spent the majority
of her state pension on tickets to the Royal Opera. “What a marvelous voice.”

  Daisy emerged from the tiny kitchen at the back of the shop carrying a bowl filled with sharp-smelling gray gunge. “Hi darling, give me a sec. I’m just about to do Yvette’s highlights.”

  Yvette, the stylish Frenchwoman who owned the clothing boutique next door, beckoned to Floria from her position in front of the mirror. “Come and talk to us, Floria,” she said. “I’m dying to know what happened to your mother. Was it really murder?”

  “That’s what they’re saying,” said Floria vaguely, casting a desperate look at Daisy.

  “It’s an ongoing investigation, Yvette,” Daisy reminded her. “We can’t talk about it.”

  “Of course.” Yvette met Daisy’s gaze in the mirror. She looked proud of herself, like she knew something no one else did and was waiting to see the reaction. “I bumped into Tatiana on my way in and she told me about the missing painting.”

  Daisy could tell by Floria’s expression that this wasn’t a surprise. Yvette looked disappointed.

  “You know about the Modigliani?” Daisy asked her friend.

  Floria nodded. “DI McGuinness called me this morning and told me about the burglary. I don’t know what to make of it. Collin will be gutted.”

  “Well, I would have thought it was obvious, mon ami,” said Yvette. “A thief broke into the house to steal the objet d’art and killed your mother in the process.” She shook her head, making the foil wraps rustle. “It’s never a good idea to have such valuable art on display. They really should have known better. I keep all my valuables locked away in my safe.” She touched the strand of pearls hanging around her neck.

  “Keep still,” instructed Daisy, pausing with the brush in the air.

  “Did you say a thief?” shouted Mrs. Bryson from under the dryer.

  “Five more minutes, Mrs. B.” Krish dashed over and embraced Floria. “Darling, I’m so sorry. I know she was a complete bitch, but it’s never easy, is it?” He kissed Floria on both cheeks.