Murder in Court Three Read online

  Flick chose her words carefully. ‘We’re trying to get a picture of who saw whom after dinner and during the archery contest. Can you help us about others on the top table?’

  ‘During the archery contest I was fully engaged as a spectator. The Captain-General was with me through dinner and we watched the contest together. The same goes for the Secretary of State for Scotland. The occasion was his idea, actually. He’s a member of both the Faculty of Advocates and the Royal Company of Archers. We’re older than them. We started in 1532 as against their 1676, but we’d never done a combined celebration, although over the years there has been quite an overlap in membership. Last Friday went very well, but for the murder. The Archers looked particularly splendid in their dark green dress jackets.’

  ‘I gather that the tables were cleared straight after dinner and there were no speeches?’ Flick asked.

  ‘Yes.’ The Dean smiled. ‘Advocates can be loquacious when speaking yet impatient when they’re supposed to be listening. We didn’t want to risk anyone heckling the Captain-General. I stood up, made the Loyal Toast, and declared: “Let the games begin.” Shades of ancient Rome, unfortunately complete with a fatality.’ She shuddered.

  ‘When was that, roughly?’

  ‘About twenty to ten. I had been told it would take twenty minutes to clear the tables and set up the archery butt and so it did.’

  ‘Can you remember seeing Chief Superintendent Traynor at any time after the meal?’

  The Dean’s face gave nothing away. ‘Personally, no, but my husband told me that during the archery he had been looking for his wife. My husband’s an accountant in town. He’s at work this morning.’

  ‘And Mrs Traynor. Did you see her after dinner?’

  ‘No, Inspector, I did not. And neither did my husband, at least not until much later. Are you prepared to say why you are interested in the Traynors?’ The tone was light and she raised her eyebrows.

  Flick pursed her lips. She searched the Dean’s intelligent, inquisitive face and made up her mind. ‘There are rumours.’ She paused. The Dean was not going to help her out. ‘About Mrs Traynor and Mr Knox.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Had she said too much already? ‘And we need to find out if these rumours are true.’

  ‘And that’s the real reason why Fife officers are investigating this Edinburgh murder?’

  It was useless denying it but she couldn’t admit it. ‘I couldn’t comment on that.’

  ‘But I might think it?’ She smiled. Flick shrugged.

  The Dean nodded. ‘You have been as frank as you can be with me, so I shall return the favour. First, for all that we deal in hard evidence in our work, Parliament House is a mine of tittle-tattle, most of it unreliable. There has been talk about Farquhar Knox and Lynda Traynor over the last few weeks, and the latest story is that they went off together during the archery to have sex in Court Three. What evidence exists to support that I cannot be sure, but it is what people are saying.’

  ‘It’s an odd place to choose, surely?’ Flick asked.

  The Dean smiled. ‘About forty years ago there was a solicitor who was wild, and completely fearless. There was a ball at Parliament House during which he was discovered having sex with a friend’s wife on the bench of, I think, Court Nine. I’m ashamed to say he has had his imitators.’

  ‘Like the mile-high club?’ di Falco interjected excitedly.

  ‘What might that be, young man?’ the Dean asked severely, then smiled as he started to babble. When she saw the glare that Flick aimed at him, she shook with silent laughter.

  Flick wanted to get back to the point. She asked, ‘So this rumour about Mr Knox and Mrs Traynor having sex in Court Three will be widely-known, ma’am?’

  ‘It’s the talk o’ the steamie, as we say.’ Her mild Scots burr broadened before reverting to normal. ‘We were out to dinner on Saturday and heard all about it. What we were told was that one of the bar’s great gossips, Percy Oliphant, effectively spied on them going along the darkened corridor and sneaking into Court Three while the archery was on. Now that’s hearsay, and it may well have been distorted in the re-telling.’

  ‘We should speak to Mr Oliphant,’ Flick said.

  The Dean opened the laptop on her desk and pressed some keys. ‘I’ll give you his contact details,’ she said. ‘It’s in everyone’s interests that this is cleared up as soon as possible. I would be grateful if you would take what I am saying on a Chatham House basis?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Flick replied. Di Falco looked bemused.

  ‘Percy Oliphant is one of our more exotic birds, Inspector. He is one of the few who continue to wear pin stripes and black jacket, usually with a colourful tie and a bowler hat. His natural habitat is licensed premises. Here.’ She pushed a slip of paper across the desk. Flick noted the bold, clear handwriting.

  ‘Did your husband see Mrs Traynor later in the evening, ma’am?’ di Falco asked.

  ‘Yes, he did. She was with the Chief Superintendent about half past eleven. They left together, but my husband says they appeared to be barely speaking. He told me that during the archery, when Traynor asked if he’d seen his wife, he didn’t appear unduly anxious or upset. You may want to question my husband but I anticipated this interview and took care to find out exactly what he could say.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Flick said. ‘I’m afraid it probably will be necessary to get a statement, but there’s no rush. Did your husband say what Mrs Traynor was wearing?’

  ‘A long, black dress.’ She smiled. ‘Actually, he said she was “a stunner”. I’ll leave you to work out what that might mean.’

  Wishing di Falco would not giggle sycophantically, Flick took a note. ‘Do you know Mrs Knox?’ she asked as an after-thought.

  ‘Eloise? Yes, of course, but not well.’

  ‘Did you, or perhaps your husband, see her during or soon after the archery?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Inspector. I asked my husband that question and he didn’t remember seeing her either.’

  Their business concluded, the officers left, Flick having taken advantage of the Dean’s offer to use her loo. As di Falco walked ahead to the car, the Dean took Flick’s arm. ‘Well done for taking this on,’ she said quietly. ‘Just remember that murders are ten-a-penny but your children are special. You must look after yourself. And your baby.’ As if to emphasise the point the baby delivered a mighty kick to Flick’s womb.

  * * *

  The next person on their schedule was the Captain-General of the Archers, Lord Craigdiller. He lived at Craigdiller Hall, some distance down the A7 then through a Sat-Nav-testing maze of minor roads. The verges and hedgerows were thick with new growth and the heavy scent of oil seed rape was in the air. Eventually they found a drive snaking into trees. The paint on a sign had peeled but the Sat-Nav insisted they had arrived.

  ‘He looks like the gardener but I bet it’s His Lordship,’ di Falco said as, bumping along the pot-holed surface, they approached an elderly man in dungarees using a stick to poke at a large heap of rotting tree-stumps. He stopped half on the verge beside the man and asked if they were on the Craigdiller Hall drive.

  The man straightened and glared through the open window. ‘Mebbe, but whit’s yer business?’ he growled. Flick barely understood him.

  Politely, di Falco explained.

  ‘Richt oan,’ the man said and resumed his poking.

  They rounded a bend and the hall stood proud and grand before them on a rise, surrounded by mossy lawns. As they drew near, the thin gravel, poor pointing and tired paintwork told their own story. On one side of the house a marquee jutted out. The dark stains on the dirty white panels suggested semi-permanence. This was probably a venue for weddings, Flick thought. She wondered if the old man beside the drive really was the laird, as the Scots would call him.

  The doorbell at least functioned well. Its strident ring summoned what sounded like a pack of dogs barking and scratching at the heavy door. A posh male voice
shouted ‘Quiet’ and the noise became a whimper. The door opened and the officers were greeted by a middle-aged man wearing tweed plus-fours, two black Labradors sitting at his feet. This was Lord Craigdiller, who welcomed them with the matter-of-fact joviality he probably used for paying guests at a shoot.

  The dogs took their cue from their master and they sniffed and licked at the officers all the way into the drawing room. While di Falco stood, Flick perched on the edge of a finely-crafted chair that did not look as if it had been re-upholstered since the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie. She faced the laird and his wife across the great stone fireplace where the ashes of a wood fire remained. After some general questions she asked about the Traynors.

  Tweedy, un-made-up and with hair looking as if it had been cut by a hedge-trimmer, Lady Craigdiller spoke with a cut-glass accent and did not mince her words.

  ‘That man Traynor was the most awful bore. He had been put beside me at dinner and all he could talk about was the deployment of police personnel in Edinburgh.’

  Thanks to a table plan provided by Maclean, Flick had known that Chief Superintendent Traynor had sat between Lady Craigdiller and the wife of the Lord Provost while his wife had Lord Craigdiller and the Secretary of State as her companions. She nodded sympathetically, hoping to encourage indiscretion.

  ‘I had expected some cracking stories, true-life Rebus stuff you know, but he was just a blasted pen-pusher. Are all senior policemen like that?’

  While di Falco shrugged and pulled a face, Flick said, ‘He’s noted for his organisational skills.’

  Lady Craigdiller snorted. ‘He could hold his drink, though. I’ll say that for him.’

  ‘Did he have a lot to drink?’ Flick asked.

  ‘He hoovered up a bottle of nice Beaune without any effort. But he was just as tedious after as before. As far as I was concerned, it was a dire evening. On my other side was the Dean’s husband. An accountant. Actually, he wasn’t too bad. At least he listened to me.’

  Seeing the glazed expression on her husband’s face, Flick detected a dig. ‘Did you see anything of Mr or Mrs Traynor after dinner?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Inspector, I did,’ Lady Craigdiller sounded triumphant. ‘As soon as the meal was over, she got up. I saw her talking very earnestly to a dark-haired man, glancing round as she did so. Their heads were jolly close together, I can tell you. Her husband lost the thread of whatever he was trying to say to me and stared at them. He wasn’t at all happy. The man she was talking to, could it have been that fellow, Knox, who was killed?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Flick said. ‘Did you see them after that?’

  ‘No. The tables were cleared, then there was the archery contest. After that I’d done my duty and spent the rest of the time with friends. Don’t tell me you think Traynor bumped off his wife’s lover? He’s gone up in my estimation if he did.’

  ‘Can you tell us any more than that, Lord Craigdiller?’ Flick asked, ignoring his wife’s last remark.

  ‘’Fraid not. I was luckier than my wife at dinner, as I had the Dean on one side and Mrs Traynor on the other. A vivacious gal. Cut quite a figure with a long, black dress slit up one thigh. Fitted her like a sheath.’ His wife coughed. ‘I remember her getting up right after the meal, but I had my back to where people were mingling.’

  ‘After the archery contest, can you describe exactly what happened to the arrows?’

  ‘They were pulled out of the butt and collected by our secretary, Captain Carstairs. He placed them in quivers and the quivers were put, with the bows, in a room reserved for judges, apparently not far from where that poor chap was murdered. It was along some dark corridor and we were assured that the things would be safe.’

  ‘And what time were they placed there?’

  ‘About ten-thirty. Possibly a bit before that.’

  ‘Could anyone have seen them being put there?’

  ‘If they had been passing the end of the corridor.’

  ‘And all the arrows were put there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know Mrs Knox?’

  ‘Oh yes. We said hello briefly when we arrived. But I don’t remember seeing her after the archery. Do you, dear?’ he asked his wife.

  ‘No. Poor Eloise. Still …’

  Flick did not ask her to elaborate. She rose and said they would be on their way. The Craigdillers would have none of it. ‘We’re proud of our hospitality in the Borders,’ he said firmly. ‘You must stay for lunch.’

  They sat at one end of a huge mahogany table overseen by previous generations of Craigdillers, gilt-framed and severe, many wearing dark green jackets, the uniform of the Royal Company of Archers. Their host explained proudly that he was not the first in the family to be Captain-General. Over pea soup, home-baked bread and local cheese, di Falco sang for his lunch with a convoluted tale of a retired teacher in St Andrews who went round his neighbourhood at dead of night vandalising cars he considered badly parked. When caught at two in the morning with a bag of new potatoes to shove up exhaust pipes he had replied, ‘They’re for chips.’

  His tongue loosened by claret, Lord Craigdiller started talking about the dead man. ‘He didn’t like me, you know. I passed near him a couple of times and he started to hum that silly Robin Hood tune. He had wanted to be an Archer, you know. I think he blamed me for not getting in, but I had very little to do with it. It was his own, frankly objectionable, personality that was the problem. He’d wormed his way into the New Club and Muirfield, but we were a bridge too far. Our members are elected, but not all candidates are accepted.’

  ‘It’s strange that he should have gone at all on Friday night,’ Flick said.

  ‘Probably thought it would look funny if he didn’t. We are very discreet about those we turn away. If they talk about it, that’s their business, but we don’t broadcast it.’

  He moved on to describe the Archers’ history which had evolved into a purely ceremonial role as the Queen’s bodyguard in Scotland. They still took a pride in their archery. Chuckling, he recounted how, in 1818, they out-shot a visiting party of American Indians, only to be loftily informed that the Indians had long since converted to firearms.

  ‘I’m glad we stayed for lunch,’ di Falco said as they waved goodbye.

  ‘Very useful,’ Flick agreed, getting out her mobile. ‘Now I’m going to track down this Percy Oliphant.’

  7

  When the court rose for lunch Baggo struggled to his feet, his bum as numb as his brain. For the first hour, Radcliffe had picked more holes in Burns’s defence without disturbing his self-assurance. When Radcliffe had finished, Burns aimed a supercilious grin at the jury. Baggo readily imagined him as an unscrupulous timeshare salesman, exaggerating and lying with brazen persistence. He hoped the jury would see through him, but if you told a big lie well enough and often enough … The rest of the morning had been taken up with defence witnesses who confirmed that certain uncontroversial parts of Burns’s story were true. Mere window-dressing, but would it fool some members of the jury?

  Baggo had planned to test the water with Melanie, but she went off in earnest discussion with Radcliffe. Outside in the foyer, Wallace and McKellar approached Lachlan Smail, who immediately called out to his solicitor. The four men moved to a corner where they began an animated discussion. Watching keenly, her brow furrowed, a tall, elegant woman of about forty stood a short distance away.

  ‘Mrs Nicola Smail, I think?’ Baggo gave her his broadest smile.

  ‘Yes?’ she responded coldly.

  ‘I am Detective Sergeant Chandavarkar and I would like to ask you some questions.’

  She frowned. ‘I know who you are. You gave evidence against my husband last week.’

  ‘The questions I have relate to the murder of Mr Knox.’

  ‘Why should I help you?’ She spoke sharply with a mere suggestion of a Scottish accent.

  ‘I cannot think of a good reason why you should not help our inquiry, ma’am.’

  She looke
d at him appraisingly then glanced in her husband’s direction. He raised his voice and snapped at his solicitor. The words ‘get it over with’ carried across the foyer. She said to Baggo, ‘Very well. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Could we go somewhere more private?’

  ‘I want to stay here and keep an eye on what is happening with my husband.’

  Baggo decided not to argue. ‘As you please. I know you were at the function on Friday night. Did you see Mr Knox at any stage?’

  ‘I saw him after the meal. He was talking to a striking-looking woman in a long black dress. I don’t remember seeing either of them after that.’

  ‘What were you wearing that night?’

  Her eyebrows shot up but she replied casually, pushing her blonde hair back from her face. ‘I also wore a long, black dress. And, should you want to examine it, I haven’t had it cleaned since Friday.’

  ‘What were you doing during the archery?’

  ‘Watching, with my husband.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  She screwed up her face. ‘I believe I went to the Ladies. Yes, I did. With Ellie Primrose. And then I chatted to some friends. When the dancing started I did a Dashing White Sergeant with my husband and Ellie Primrose.’

  ‘When did the dancing start?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Perhaps twenty minutes after the archery finished.’

  ‘What did your husband do immediately before the dancing?’

  She glanced in his direction again. Their eyes locked for a moment. She smiled, he nodded to her and she nodded back. Addressing Baggo, her eyes wide open, she said, ‘I have no idea. I don’t tag him, you know.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’ He smiled. She responded with a slight curl of her upper lip. ‘And after the Dashing Sergeant?’ he asked pleasantly.

  ‘There was a Duke of Perth and Hamilton House. I did the Duke of Perth with my husband and Hamilton House with John Primrose.’ Although she volunteered this extra information, her tone of voice and posture remained hostile.