Chapter Eleven
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The sun had risen on a bright, though chilly, morning, and James Ashby-Petherington parked his red Aston Martin at the top of the lane that led to his friend's house, as usual. This visit, however, was not expected.
"Oh, hello," said Horatio, opening the door after some insistent bell-pushing from James. He was wearing only a bath-towel round his waist. "What are you doing here today?"
"I've come to tell you," said James angrily, "that I don't want another woman to touch you." He was aware that his face was as flushed as ever.
Horatio laughed. "Another woman? You aren't talking about Belinda again, are you? Didn't you know that she's been for the chop as well? There's some nutcase loose in this village."
"Of course I know," said James. "It was in the Causton Echo. But I saw those women in the club pawing at you." James stuck his hands in his pockets and looked defiant. In moments of great stress, his stammer miraculously left him.
"Look, Jimmy," said Horatio, who had still not opened the door wide enough to let him in, "now isn't a good time, you know?"
"Why? Have you got a woman in there?" James tried hard to look inside.
"Don't be daft. I'm washing my knickers."
"Oh." James couldn't think of what to say next. "Well — even if you are washing your knickers —" and he now realized that there was indeed the steady hum of a washing machine in operation in the background.
"Besides which, I've got to be at Aunt Phyllis' place by ten-thirty. She wants me to shift some satsumas."
"Right-oh." James turned as if to leave and then turned back. "Because if you do get involved with another woman, this time I'll kill you."
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"So Rosemary Bellinger was connected with Phyllis Potts, was she?" asked Jones. He and Barnaby were sitting in the Volvo, about to move off in the direction of 'The Manor House', Midsomer Florey.
"Apparently so. Rosemary Bellinger is dead, but Phyllis Potts is not." Barnaby's mobile buzzed again. "Barnaby!" he shouted. "Where? ― When? ― 'The Hollies', Midsomer Magna? OK. we're on our way," and he snapped his mobile shut.
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Sandra Crawley, dressed in a pale pink two-piece suit and sporting several golden rings on her fingers, met them at the door. "I just went in and found him there," she said.
"Where?"
"In the garage," and she led them round the corner of the substantial modern bungalow. At first Barnaby could see nothing except the shiny grey Porsche and the white-clad figure of George Bullard. But at the back of the garage was a man, suspended by his neck from a metal beam below the ceiling, clearly dead.
"Oh, God!" said Jones and turned away.
"In case you're wondering, definitely suicide this time," said George jovially. "Neck dislocated at the third and fifth vertebrae. Must have been quick."
"Jones, will you take Mrs Crawley inside the house?" asked Barnaby. "Cut him down, George!"
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"I can't say I ever liked him," said Sandra Crawley, who had sat herself down on the leather settee in the large living-room. "I married him ― yes ― but that was a long time ago. Would you like a cup of tea?"
Jones declined. "Can you think of any reason why your husband would commit suicide?" he asked.
"Not really. Though he had been acting oddly lately."
"Oddly?"
"Furtively. He seemed to be afraid of something."
"And ― you don't know what?"
"No, but it was to do with money, which is strange because we've got pots of it. Kept saying last night that we must sell the Porsche. Over my dead body, I told him. Oh ― sorry," Sandra realized that she had said something inappropriate.
"At what time did you find your husband in the garage?"
"About half past eleven ― twelve. I was about to go out to Waitrose. He left about eight o'clock this morning to go to work as usual ― or so I thought. Gave me the fright of my life to see him hanging there, I can tell you." Mrs Crawley seemed remarkably composed under the circumstances.
"And apart from seeming ― furtive, is there nothing else you can tell me about his recent movements ― anything that seemed ― out of character?"
"No," said Sandra. "But now you mention it, he did seemed depressed last night. Finished off the Glenmorangie before dinner! He said 'Sandra, this is it,' and he brought home a great big file from the office, too. He's never done that before. I always made it clear that he shouldn't mix home with the office. He's ― he was ― an Officer with the Council, you know."
"A great big file? What sort of file?"
Sandra got up and sauntered over to an 18th Century French desk by the window. "I believe this is it," and she handed Jones an expanding wallet tied up with pink ribbon. Jones undid the ribbon and extracted five large sheets of paper that had been folded several times to fit into the wallet. They appeared to be architectural drawings. "And he kept muttering some name," she added.
"Name? What name?"
"Let me see." Sandra put one hand to her forehead. "Ashford ― Ashford-Partington ― some silly name like that. It was a double-barrel name."
"Ashby-Petherington," said Barnaby, who had entered from the hallway.
"That's it!" said Sandra. "Are you sure you won't have a cup of tea?"
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"This looks like the Taj Mahal, sir," said Jones once they had regained the Volvo.
"An extremely elaborate building indeed," said Barnaby, trying to open up one of the enormous sheets and finding he couldn't do so in the space available without suffocating Jones. "The scale is much bigger than could ever be built in or near Causton."
"I see it's called..." ― leaning over Barnaby's lap Jones was just able to make out the name on the bottom right-hand corner of the sheet ― "Paradise. Where the hell is that?"
"Oh, yes." Tom bent down to scrutinise the inscription. "Paradise. Midsomer. Copyright Causton Borough Council. Just that."
"Paradise? What sort of a name is that?" asked Ben as he straightened up.
"Right, I'll drive you back to the station, and you go on to Midsomer Florey. Try to find out what Hector Ashby-Petherington knew about the Smiths and what he has to do with these plans. I'll go to the Town Hall to speak with the Leader of the Council about Crawley."