02 Blue Murder (17 page)

“
So why is Lady Isabel
called Bartlow?” Kate asked. “Is she married? I didn’t see a
ring.”

“
Do let me continue,” Lady
Margaret said, pale eyes gleaming. “Despite their parents’
separation, Duncan and Izzie were always close. They grew up
summering together, going on holiday together. And Duncan was never
hard up for companionship. Even before his trial, he had a crowd of
followers and devotees. He was one of those boys who never had to
do his own schoolwork—there was always a line of would-be mates to
do it for him. Have you noticed all the young people here
tonight?”

Kate was startled to realize she hadn’t, not
until Lady Margaret pointed it out. Clearly the necessity of
dressing up and running the genteel gauntlet had short-circuited
her detective instincts. Looking around the ballroom with fresh
eyes, Kate realized that more than a third of the guests were in
their early twenties. Many of the faces looked familiar, like
guests from Emmeline’s party.

“
I’ve never seen so many
past interviewees in one place,” she laughed. “Well, except for a
courtroom. Are they all personal friends of Sir Duncan and Lady
Isabel?”

“
Friends, friends of
friends, or ambitious hangers-on, eager to befriend the beast. The
man has charisma a movie star would kill for,” Lady Margaret said.
“He’s a woman magnet, too, if you didn’t know. But he never
married. Izzie is his one constant. Even when her husband, Mike
Bartlow, walked out on her, Izzie hardly seemed to notice. I
shouldn’t have to tell you what sort of rumors all this coziness
between siblings has given rise to.”

“
Are the rumors true?”
Hetheridge asked.

Lady Margaret considered. “Izzie has a
certain charm about her. I’d like to say, no. But I can’t. Not
after all the odd behavior I’ve witnessed between those two over
the years. So the jury is still out.”

“
Three deaths in one family
is excessive as far as coincidences go,” Kate said to Hetheridge.
“And that’s not even counting the triple-murder trial. Do you think
Sir Duncan was responsible for any of them? His mum? The nanny? His
little sister?”

“
Never made my mind up.”
Hetheridge took a sip of his drink. “But if I were to place a
wager, I’d say yes to the nanny and the youngest sibling. No to his
mother.”

“
Why?”

Hetheridge shrugged. “Instinct. Nothing
more.”

The band, apparently on break when Kate and
Hetheridge arrived, chose that moment to resume playing. Joining
synthesizer, drums, bass and electric guitar, they produced a slow,
excruciating instrumental Kate finally recognized as the Beatles’
“Yesterday.”

“
Crikey. A slow
dance.”

“
Tony, that’s your cue,”
Lady Margaret said with an evil grin.

“
No, truly, this isn’t my
sort of dancing,” Kate protested as several couples took to the
floor.

“
Of course it is.” Lady
Margaret’s tone was breezy. “Haven’t you read Austen? At parties,
the only worthwhile conversations happen whilst
dancing.”

Placing his glass on the tabletop,
Hetheridge extended a hand to Kate. “Will you do me the honor?”

“
Bleeding buggery bollocks,”
Kate groaned. She knocked back the rest of the sparkling wine like
it was soda, dropping the strawberry next to Hetheridge’s Scotch.
“I mean—sorry. Yes, of course.”

She allowed Hetheridge to lead her onto the
dance floor, wondering how embarrassing this would be. A good
dancer, Kate had long ago made peace with the fact she never chose
males who could keep up with her on the dance floor. They always
seemed to rely on one of two approaches. There was the full body
clutch, refuge of non-dancers the world over. Or there was the “man
dance,” an arrhythmic bob and weave, performed whenever the music
ran faster than a funeral march …

Smiling, Hetheridge positioned Kate’s hands
traditionally. Taking a step backward, he began leading her along
with the music. Assessing his movements, Kate followed them easily,
matching each step and turn. Among the small crowd they soon
drifted into the center, other couples moving aside for the pair
that was actually dancing.

“
You’ve had lessons,” Kate
accused.

“
At school. It was
considered part of our education, if you can believe that,”
Hetheridge said.

Kate thought of all the subjects—including
higher maths, computer science and world politics—children as young
as Henry were expected to learn. Where on earth would dancing fit
in?

“
That’s a bit dodgy. What
sort of schools did you attend?”

“
Eton. Then Oxford.
Now—look.” Hetheridge twirled Kate in the opposite direction.
“There’s Sir Duncan at last. See him, close to the wicker
man?”

Kate looked, but the selection of tall,
distinguished men in evening dress was too plentiful for her to
make a positive ID.

“
Perfect timing,” Hetheridge
said when the music ceased. “I hope he didn’t see you with me. We
should part ways for a time. I’d like you to chat him up. Mention
the French-Parsons case if you can.”

“
Just ask him if he did it?
And if so, how and why?” Kate felt nervous all over again. Yet she
suspected if she were dressed in her daily work garb, she would see
Hetheridge’s request as an exciting opportunity, not a potentially
humiliating encounter. “Can’t you just send Lady Margaret? I’ll bet
she could force a confession in five minutes, guilty or
not.”

“
I fear you’re more to his
taste. And mine, too, lest you forget,” Hetheridge said. “Take
care. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“
Fine.” Squaring her
shoulders, Kate made her way toward Sir Duncan and the towering,
candlelit wicker man.

Chapter Fourteen

A
s
Kate elbowed her way into the thick of the guests, earning a sharp
“I say!” from a stooped man with a red nose, she at last caught
sight of Sir Duncan Godington—blond hair, high cheekbones and
sensuous mouth. He looked like a fairer, masculine edition of his
lovely half-sister—and, yes, a bit like James Bond, especially in
evening dress. But Bond, at least in Kate’s imagination, possessed
the dispassionate stare of a professional killer. Sir Duncan,
caught in a knot of stylishly disheveled young people, had gentle,
even humorous eyes. As Kate watched, Sir Duncan smiled at the
slender brunette before him.

Oh, yes. Sir Duncan had two smiles, Kate
knew. One was famous—that sharklike grin that bared every possible
tooth. The tabloids loved to pair that grin with captions like,
“Sir Dunc Shows His Fangs!” But Sir Duncan’s other smile was
tender, both masculine and sweetly sympathetic. A smile that made
many women think of a frilly white wedding dress and a crotchless
black teddy, both at the same time.

But not
me
, Kate told herself.
Never fancied the rich blokes. Cinderella snags a toff with
hands softer than hers? That story always made me want to puke
...

Suddenly, she cut off that line of thought,
no longer certain it was true. Discovering Hetheridge could dance
had been such a welcome surprise. And hearing him introduce her
with obvious pride had made her blush like a schoolgirl.

Kate glanced back the way she’d come, but
Hetheridge wasn’t there. He’d faded away from the dance floor, no
doubt to avoid Sir Duncan’s line of sight.

It’s not like Tony lives
off his cash, hunting foxes all day like skeevy old
Roderick
, Kate told herself.
And as for his hands, they certainly aren’t
softer than …

A familiar voice cut through her reverie.
“Of course I don’t mind if a police officer is here. I’m having a
lovely time. Perfectly at ease.”

Elbowing past another knot of guests, Kate
pushed forward until she saw the face of the slender brunette in
that shimmering white gown. Yes. It was Kyla Sloane.

She looked beautiful, and even more like
Tessa Chilcott than Kate remembered. Kyla’s long, dark hair was
sleek and perfect. Like Tessa, Kyla was fragile-looking, almost too
thin in her glittery sheath. Though she sounded cool and
intelligent, there was something brittle about the girl, especially
with Sir Duncan towering over her.

“
It means a great deal to
Izzie and I, having you here,” Sir Duncan was saying. “Don’t feel
obliged to hide yourself away. You’ve done nothing
wrong.”

“
I know. But sometimes I
feel like the perception of guilt is as damning as the reality,”
Kyla said. She held a toffee appletini in her hands. The glass
looked sweaty, its contents untouched.

“
Only to the
rabbit-hearted.” Sir Duncan’s smile reappeared. “You are made of
sterner stuff, my girl.”

“
Does the way he fawns over
her make you want to puke?” someone asked near Kate’s
ear.

Kate turned, surprised to see a male after
hearing those chirpish tones. A young man of about Kyla’s age stood
beside her. Attired in evening dress, he had straight hair, a good
smile and the sort of wide-cheeked, pleasant face universally
thought of as cute.

“
Sorry, you may not remember
me. Jeremy Bentham.” He offered a small, delicate hand, which Kate
shook. “I was a guest at Emmeline Wardle’s on the night of the
murders. I saw you at Scotland Yard while I waited to be processed
with all the rest.” Jeremy gave her a self-deprecating grin. “DS
Bhar talked to me and a couple of other blokes at the same time,
then let us all go. I reckon we didn’t seem guilty enough to be
interesting.”

“
Bentham?” Kate thought for
a moment, mentally rifling through the many reports gathered the
case’s Action Book. “I remember. You saw someone in the back
garden.”

“
I suppose,” Jeremy said.
“Now when I look back, I’m not sure. It was all so confusing. I’d
hate to be on record for saying something that wasn’t perfectly
accurate. Not when it might lead to—I don’t know. Somewhere it
shouldn’t.” He shrugged, shifting from foot to foot.

“
Of course not.” Kate
lowered her voice. “Mr. Bentham—Jeremy. I know Mr. Parsons was a
star athlete. I’m sure he had some intimidating mates. Has one of
them approached you? Asked you to retract some part of your
testimony?”

Jeremy shook his head.

“
You’re quite certain?” Kate
asked gently, thinking of all the times Henry had slunk home,
miserable, after a bad day at school and then tried to deny
it.

“
If someone did try and
intimidate me, it wouldn’t be one of Trev’s friends,” Jeremy
whispered. “It would be one of his.”

Kate glanced in the direction Jeremy was
looking. Sir Duncan had just finished chatting with Kyla. Now his
gaze shifted to Kate, smiling that easy, charming smile.

No, not at
me
, Kate realized with a strange burst of
relief and disappointment. Sir Duncan was looking at Jeremy. In
response, Jeremy grinned and waved. For a moment, it looked as if
Sir Duncan would respond by joining them. Then another guest, a
horse-faced woman with a loud, braying laugh, accosted
him.

“
A friend of yours?” Kate
asked.

“
I wish,” Jeremy sighed. “A
friend of a friend, actually. I’ve only met Sir Duncan twice. He’s
cordial to everyone, but to really run with his crowd you have to
be one of the chosen people. I grew up in Peterborough. My dad
sells shoes.”

“
Came to uni on scholarship,
then? Like Clive French?”

Jeremy nodded. “We took a lot of the same
courses, but we weren’t friends. Acquaintances, really. As for
Trevor … well. Mustn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“
Of course.” Kate tried not
to look disappointed. Of course, there were three open bars. Would
Jeremy Bentham be more forthcoming on the topic of Trevor’s
character if he had some alcohol in him? “No toffee appletini for
you?”

“
Afraid not. Just soda or
water. Like Phoebe.” Jeremy pointed out a young woman not far away.
She was chatting with a large group of girls, most in stylish red
or black. Phoebe, dressed in pink silk, was the blondest and
prettiest. She was also the widest, her A-line dress flapping with
every movement.

“
Isn’t she perfect?” Jeremy
turned a goofy grin on Kate, who couldn’t resist grinning back. The
kid was about as subtle as Tom Cruise jumping up and down on
Oprah’s sofa. He was in love.

In the course of her animated conversation,
Phoebe pivoted, revealing toned arms, a slender neck, and shapely
legs. Suddenly, the reason for her expanded midsection was obvious.
Phoebe was at least eight months pregnant.

“
I’m laying off the booze to
be supportive,” Jeremy confided to Kate. “Pheebs hasn’t had a drink
since she found out, and neither have I. It’s a little weird, being
sober all the time. Makes you feel like a grown-up. Oh—and it’s not
my baby, if you want to know.”

“
No?” Kate felt awkward.
Rarely did conversations take this turn. Especially at a party full
of strangers.

“
Nope. Just a friend,”
Jeremy said. “But that’s okay. It’s not like being a friend is
unimportant. Pheebs really needs her friends right now.”

As if hearing her name, Phoebe turned,
catching sight of Jeremy and motioning him over. Jeremy shot Kate
an apologetic look.

“
Sorry. Pheebs calls. Must
dash.” He began working himself back through the ever-shifting
crowd. “Good luck, Scotland Yard!”