Death at a Country Mansion Read online

  “It would be in the French papers,” Daisy pointed out. “But he might not have seen them.”

  “Do you think your friend could check the BA flights to Paris on Saturday night?”

  “I’ll ask her.” Daisy whipped out her phone and sent a text message to Asa.

  “We’d better get out of here before that policeman reports us,” said Floria, getting up. She cast her eyes over the desk to make sure it was as they’d left it.

  Daisy, who’d been pacing the room, glanced out of the window.

  “Too late,” she murmured. “DI McGuinness has arrived and he doesn’t look happy.”

  Floria grimaced. “I’d better get some personal items from my old room; otherwise they’ll be suspicious.”

  “Don’t bother.” Daisy flicked the receipt. “We have leverage. The inspector will know we were here to snoop anyway.”

  They raced downstairs and were met by a stony-faced DI McGuinness in the entrance hall.

  “You do realize this is a crime scene,” he barked, his brow furrowed. He looked quite intimidating.

  Floria glanced nervously at Daisy, who flashed him her best smile. “I’m sorry, Paul, but we were looking for information on Collin’s mystery lover. We thought it might help us locate him.”

  His eyes flickered as he studied her. There was a long pause, but eventually he said, “And did you?”

  “We found a receipt from Liberty, which we think was a gift.” She handed it to him. “It’s for expensive French perfume.”

  “Mother only wears Chanel,” Floria added helpfully.

  “What does this tell us?” His gaze moved from Daisy to Floria and back again.

  “We think he’s in France.” Daisy nodded toward the receipt. “Violeta said he met her on a flight to Paris, and he’s bought her French perfume.”

  “And her name is Bernadette,” Floria reminded him.

  “I bet if you check, you’ll find he took a flight to France the night of Serena’s death and not the Bahamas, like we thought.” Daisy hoped she was right. If it were true, it would rule out Serena’s latest husband as a suspect. The Bahamas was just a trick to throw Serena off the scent.

  “I will check.”

  DI McGuinness shepherded them out the front door and gestured to the red-faced police officer to lock it.

  “I’ve also got the mobile phone numbers for Sir Ranulph Haines, Niall Barclay and Hubert Laughton, Serena’s exes.” Daisy fished in her handbag for the paper on which she’d written them down and handed it to DI McGuinness. He took it and studied the names.

  “Serena didn’t take her first husband’s surname?”

  “No, she didn’t,” Floria explained. “Her audiences knew her as Levanté, so she kept it.”

  He nodded and pocketed the list.

  “My father is staying with me until you allow us back into Brompton Court,” Floria added.

  “You can move back in on Thursday,” he confirmed. “I hope that gives you enough time to prepare for the reception?”

  Daisy was surprised the gruff inspector had considered the memorial preparations. Floria, on the other hand, had gone into party-planning mode. “Yes, although with only a day to spare, I’ll have to hire cleaners to get the place shipshape. Violeta won’t be able to cope by herself. Many of the overseas guests will stay the night, so we have to get the bedrooms sorted.”

  Daisy estimated there were about fifteen bedrooms at Brompton Court, most of which were rarely used. Dame Serena and Collin had separate rooms, both on the west side of the house near Collin’s study and the section of the landing where Serena had fallen to her death. The few times Daisy had stayed over, she’d been put up in one of the many guest rooms in the east wing, next to Floria’s old bedroom. Floria had explained that when she was young, the nanny had occupied that room. Serena’s schedule was such that the opera diva hadn’t the time or inclination to tend to Floria’s needs, and so a full-time nanny was always in residence.

  “I believe the reading of the will is to take place after the reception on Friday?” DI McGuinness said. It was more of a statement than a question, though.

  Floria nodded. “Yes, Greg thought it would be most appropriate because my sisters will be here by then.”

  Daisy saw a flush steal into her friend’s cheeks. Every time her sisters were mentioned, Floria practically sizzled with excitement. It was going to be a very emotional weekend. Hundreds were coming to the memorial service, although only Serena’s closest friends—if she had such a thing—had been invited to the reception.

  “Will you let us know what you find out about Collin?” Daisy reached into her pocket for her car keys. If they wanted to get to Mayfair before five o’clock, when the gallery shut, they’d better get a move on. Her aim was to park at the station and catch the train into Waterloo. From there they’d navigate by tube to the gallery.

  DI McGuinness met her gaze. “Of course.”

  Daisy smiled her thanks, then got into the car with Floria and they drove down the meandering driveway leaving Brompton Court shimmering in the afternoon sun behind them.

  Chapter Ten

  Bronwyn, Collin’s meticulous personal assistant, was tidying up the gallery after a busy day when Daisy and Floria arrived. Floria explained that they urgently needed to locate Collin, and could they have a look in his office to see if there was anything that might tell them where he was?

  “Absolutely not,” said Bronwyn, aghast. “I can’t let you look in Mr. Harrison’s office. He’d kill me.”

  Daisy could see she wouldn’t budge, so she tried a different angle. “Bronwyn, do you have access to Collin’s diary? Perhaps you can tell us if he had anything planned or booked this week?”

  The PA gnawed her lower lip, then made a decision. “Okay, sure. I guess there’s no harm in that.” She sat down in front of her computer and opened Outlook. Her eyes scrolled across, and then down the screen. “No, he had nothing booked until Thursday; that’s tomorrow.”

  Daisy raised her eyebrows. “So it’s quite likely he could have gone away for a few days?”

  “He’s always off on business trips and he never tells me where he’s going. Sometimes I get a phone call from somewhere abroad, canceling his appointments for the next few days, and other times, like now, the calendar is empty until he’s due back.”

  “So this is normal for him?” Collin had planned to be away, then.

  His PA nodded. “Yes, like I told the police the other day, he often does this. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “So you’re not worried he’s gone missing or anything?”

  “God, no.” She looked alarmed. “Should I be?”

  “Oh, no,” Daisy rushed to reassure her. “We’re just trying to ascertain if this is his normal pattern, that’s all. If so—and by the sounds of things it is—there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Bronwyn’s shoulders sank and she exhaled, visibly relieved.

  “Right, thank you, Bronwyn,” Daisy said. “You’ve been really helpful.”

  She smiled, somewhat hesitantly. Daisy got the impression she didn’t get much in the way of praise. “I don’t know if you’re interested, but Floria and I were going to have drinks and a light supper at the Arts Club. You could join us, if you’re free?”

  The Arts Club was an exclusive members’ club situated a stone’s throw from the gallery. It sported five floors of luxury, including a sushi restaurant, an oyster bar, a brasserie and a sunny terrace, and in the evenings you could listen to jazz or soul in the basement. Floria, who worked in Mayfair, used it for relaxed meetings with musicians her boss wanted to impress and ultimately sign.

  “They have the best sushi,” Floria added, catching on.

  “Thank you, but I have to lock up at five.” Her voice was filled with disappointment.

  “It’s okay, it’s only half an hour. We’ll wait.” Daisy smiled at her. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here. I’d like to have a look around.”

  “Wel
l, okay. If you’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” Daisy said firmly. “The more the merrier. You finish up and then we’ll get going. I’m looking forward to a glass of bubbly.”

  Bronwyn whizzed around, positioning scatter cushions and polishing mirrors, then she swept the floors and, finally, gathered up all the cups on her desk. “I’ll just wash these up and then we can go,” she called before dashing off to the kitchen.

  “Keep an eye out,” whispered Daisy as she slunk off toward Collin’s office. Luckily, the glass door was unlocked; his office was adjacent to Bronwyn’s, and the PA had, no doubt, been in and out during the day.

  Wasting no time, she attacked the desk, pulling out draws and leafing through the contents in rapid succession. She found nothing frivolous, only work-related stuff. She did notice, however, his laptop was missing. It hadn’t been in his study at Brompton Court either, which meant he must have it with him.

  She heard Floria whistle gently. Bronwyn was coming back. Taking one last look around, Daisy spotted the wastebasket. It had a few scraps of paper in it. Out of time, she grabbed them and stuffed them into her handbag before darting out of the office and into Bronwyn’s. But she was too late. The secretary was already outside the door. In a panic, she looked around for somewhere to hide; then she heard Floria say, “Bronwyn, I don’t remember the Anthony van Dyck. When did Collin acquire it?”

  The sound of retreating footsteps told Daisy that Floria had led Bronwyn off into the other room, giving her a precious few minutes. With relief, she darted out of the office and went to join them. “That’s better; I was bursting.”

  Bronwyn shut down her computer, locked the door to Collin’s office and then her own. Daisy had to admit she was very thorough. She checked all the locks afterward, and ushered them out before setting the burglar alarm, after which she vacated the gallery herself. The front door had two bolts that she locked using unusually shaped keys. She then activated the solid aluminum security door via a remote control attached to her key ring. “You can’t be too careful with those old masters and impressionist paintings inside. Criminals these days are so technically advanced.”

  Not surprisingly, The Arts Club was bustling thanks to the fine weather. They got a table outside on the terrace and ordered a bottle of prosecco.

  Bronwyn, who couldn’t stop looking around in case she spotted someone famous, asked when the funeral was.

  “We’re having a memorial service on Friday,” Floria told her. “I’ve announced it in the national press, although I’m keeping the reception strictly private, otherwise it’ll be mayhem.” I remember last time Serena hosted an open house, we had to call the police to remove the lingering guests at about four in the morning, and then we still found couples sleeping it off in the woods the next day.

  Once they were onto their second glass and everybody’s mood had lifted, Daisy turned to Bronwyn and asked, “Did you know Collin was having an affair?”

  The PA spluttered on her prosecco. “What? No, I had no idea.”

  Daisy leaned forward, taking her into her confidence. “Apparently, he told Serena as much the day she died. The poor woman was devastated, as you can imagine.”

  “The housekeeper found her bawling her eyes out,” Floria divulged. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But please don’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want the press to get wind of it.” That much was true. Although Serena’s reputation of late couldn’t get much worse, they didn’t want the world to know she’d been dumped by her fourth husband the day she was murdered.

  Bronwyn’s eyes were out on stalks. “I swear I didn’t know. He didn’t say anything to me.”

  “Are you sure? He didn’t ask for restaurant recommendations or to book any romantic getaways for two?”

  “Suggestions for French perfume?” cut in Floria.

  “No, nothing like that.” Her brow creased in concentration, then she said, “But he did ask me a strange question the other day.”

  “Oh, what was that?” Daisy perked up.

  “He asked me if I’d ever been to Lourmarin. It’s a small village in the south of France. I only know it because we used to go to Avignon on holiday when I was a child, and it was close by. I said I had and it was very picturesque, but we left it at that. Do you think that’s where he is?” She stared at them with wide eyes.

  “I don’t know.” Daisy met Floria’s gaze over Bronwyn’s head. “He could be shacked up there with his mistress. It’s a pity we don’t have the name of a guesthouse or some way of contacting him.”

  “He might not even know Mother’s dead.” Floria deliberately choked on the words.

  “Have you tried his mobile?” Bronwyn asked. They both nodded.

  “What about his work phone?”

  They stared at her. “You mean he has a second phone?”

  “Oh yes, for work contacts. Here, I’ll give you the number.”

  She took out her mobile and scrolled through it for a few seconds. “Ah, here we go.”

  She read off the number, which Floria immediately dialed. Daisy found she was holding her breath. If he was having an affair, it would make sense he had a second phone, and probably an untraceable one too.

  “It rang, but went to voice mail,” said Floria, disappointed.

  Daisy picked up her glass and downed what was left in it. But it wasn’t switched off, which meant Paul might be able to trace it. Jubilant, she grinned at her companions. “Shall we order? I’m starving.”

  Chapter Eleven

  DI McGuinness was waiting for her when she got home. The night was balmy, and he was sitting in his car with the door open, music playing softly on the radio.

  “Hello, Paul,” she said as she approached from the rear. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  As he climbed out of the car, Daisy was struck by how tired he looked. His eyes had purple circles beneath them and his five-o’clock shadow was now dark stubble that covered most of his jaw and neck. Even the soft Irish lilt that earlier had been barely noticeable was more pronounced. “I came to tell you that we arrested Sergio Draganska and Tatiana Shishkova this afternoon.”

  Daisy gasped. “Because of what I said?”

  He nodded. “I thought it warranted further investigation. They are being interviewed under caution by members of my team as we speak, but so far they’re both sticking to their story.”

  “Sergio’s tough,” Daisy mused. “He’s got a healthy disrespect for the law. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been in trouble with the authorities before.”

  Paul gave her a curious glance. “Funny you should say that. He did serve a short sentence for petty theft in Poland.”

  She gave an embarrassed grin. Of course Paul would do background checks on all his suspects.

  “How did you guess?”

  She shrugged. “I’m good at reading people.”

  “I’d say.”

  Daisy opened the door. “Shall we go inside?”

  He followed her in.

  “Make yourself at home. I’ll get us a drink.”

  “Coffee for me, please. I’ve got to drive back to Guildford tonight.”

  “Good idea. I’ve had far too much prosecco today.” She popped on the kettle.

  At his raised eyebrow, she elaborated, “Floria and I paid a visit to Collin’s gallery after we left you this afternoon. We thought his personal assistant, Bronwyn, might know where he was.”

  “So you took her out and fed her prosecco?”

  Daisy shrugged. “We thought it might help.”

  “Well, we already questioned her; she didn’t know anything. However, we checked with the airlines, and you were right. Collin Harrison flew to Marseilles on Saturday afternoon, which would mean he couldn’t have killed Serena on Saturday night.”

  “So you’ve crossed him off your suspect list?”

  “For now, yes. We’d still like to have a word with him when he gets back. If he gets back.”

  “I think I can help you with
that.” Daisy leaned forward on the bar counter. “Collin had a second mobile phone, probably untraceable, which he used for work, but I’m betting his mistress had the number.”

  Paul stared at her. “A second phone?”

  “Yes; it’s no secret. Bronwyn gave us the number. Perhaps you can ping him?”

  “Damn.” He looked thoroughly put out. “Why the hell didn’t she give me that information?”

  “Perhaps it was the prosecco,” Daisy said with a smile.

  Paul shook his head. “I should take tips from you.”

  Daisy grinned at the compliment. When the water had boiled, she made them each a large mug of coffee and walked back into the living room area. “There’s more.”

  He raised an eyebrow and accepted the mug. “I can’t wait to hear.”

  “Collin asked Bronwyn if she’d ever been to a French village called Lourmarin.”

  Paul scratched his bristly chin. “Lourmarin? I know it. It’s near Avignon. But that’s a bit of a long shot, isn’t it? So what? He may have liked the name of the place.”

  “But he might have been going there with his lover, the air stewardess. Perhaps he hadn’t been before. It’s close to Marseilles, isn’t it? A short drive in a rented car. Oh, that reminds me. I have his work trash.”

  “What?” At Paul’s confused expression, she ran around the bar counter, picked up her handbag and unceremoniously emptied it onto the coffee table. The contents spilled out and shot in all directions. A lipstick and a tampon rolled off the table and landed at his feet. Paul picked up the items and put them back on the table. He said dryly, “I hope there’s a point to all this.”

  “Getting there.” Daisy picked out a crumpled piece of paper and opened it. She held it up in front of him.

  “Avis, Marseilles,” he read. “This is the car rental company?”

  She nodded. “I took it out of his wastebasket when I was in his office today. Then there’s this.” She unfolded a small Post-it Note and placed it before him. “It’s a telephone number. Look, isn’t that the French dialing code? I called it earlier, but nobody answered.”