The Seven Stars Page 7

  During the coffee-break, she heard him introduce himself to the lecturer, a woman from a local auction house, as Valentine Perry. From the way he announced his name, she gathered it should have been familiar, but it meant nothing to her.

  At the end of the class, Helen turned to the pleasant-faced woman beside her. ‘Do you know who that gentleman in the second row is?’ she asked quietly. ‘I feel I should know him.’

  ‘That’s Valentine Perry,’ the woman replied, which much Helen had already gleaned.

  ‘Should I know the name?’ she prompted.

  ‘Not if you don’t live locally; he writes articles on antiques in Broadshire Life.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t he be giving lectures rather than attending them?’

  ‘I suppose he’s covering the course for the magazine.’ They were now filing through the hall in search of the promised buffet lunch. ‘My name’s Rose Chalmers,’ the woman added.

  ‘Helen Campbell.’

  ‘How do you do? I must say, you have quite a sound knowledge of silver yourself.’

  Helen explained about her pre-marriage work at Lamprey’s and Miss Chalmers was impressed. ‘And you’re hoping to take it up again? I envy you.’

  Valentine Perry was already seated at one of the tables, and as Helen passed he treated her to a considering stare. She met his eyes with bland inquiry and after a moment his own dropped to his plate.

  He regarded her as a rival, Helen thought, and was secretly flattered. Perhaps her knowledge wasn’t as out of date as she’d supposed.

  *

  Kate said abruptly, ‘What do you think of Helen Campbell?’

  Stella looked up in surprise. ‘I haven’t really thought anything. Why?’

  ‘Didn’t it strike you as odd that she’s come back?’

  ‘Not at all. She’s attending the course at Melbray.’

  ‘I know that,’ Kate said impatiently. ‘But it could just be a cover.’

  ‘A cover?’ Stella echoed blankly. ‘For what?’

  ‘She gives the impression of snooping, that’s all. The way she asked about Molly, for instance. Did you mention her name in front of her?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘I’m sure I didn’t, so how did she know it?’

  ‘She must have overheard it, as she said.’

  ‘Also, she seemed upset on hearing she was dead; almost as if she’d known her.’

  ‘Well, the accident did happen while she was here.’ Stella forced a laugh. ‘Don’t start imagining things, Kate!’

  But her sister was not to be deflected. ‘Perhaps the police aren’t convinced it was an accident.’

  Stella stared at her for a moment, then picked up her knife and fork. ‘I don’t know where you got that idea. We answered all their questions and they seemed quite satisfied.’

  ‘Only because they didn’t ask the right ones.’

  ‘Kate!’

  ‘Such as why Molly was so upset she went running off without even stopping for her bike. If she had done, she mightn’t have been knocked down.’

  Stella said in a low voice, ‘Please, Kate, don’t bring all that up again.’

  ‘Let’s just hope no one else does,’ Kate returned drily.

  *

  During the tea-break, Helen spied a copy of Broadshire Life lying on a table and picked it up. She started flicking through its glossy pages, and an amused voice behind her said, ‘Page twenty-six.’

  She turned. Valentine Perry was looming over her with a condescending smile. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Page twenty-six. My article. I imagine that’s what you’re looking for?’

  ‘As it happens, no,’ Helen said shortly.

  ‘Oh come, you needn’t be coy. I assure you, I’m flattered!’

  ‘Without reason, I’m afraid. I was looking for a piece by someone I know.’

  ‘And who would that be?’ Patently he didn’t believe her.

  ‘Gordon Cain,’ she said crisply, pleased to see his self-satisfied smile fade.

  ‘Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t read his copy.’

  And he turned and melted into the crowd. Helen continued her search and finally came upon Gordon’s name above an article on the countryside in winter. But there wasn’t time to read it before she had to return for the second half of the talk on antique jewellery.

  As she entered the room, Valentine Perry studiously avoided looking at her and Helen was aware that she had made, if not an enemy, at least an antagonist. She almost regretted not pandering to the man’s conceit.

  *

  When she came down for supper that evening, the local paper had been left, as before, on the small table in the hall. Helen picked it up and, now she knew the identity of the forecaster, turned with more interest to the horoscopes.

  As before, ‘Tomorrow’s Birthday’ was apart from the rest and she ran her eye down it, wondering to how many hundreds of people this forecast was supposed to apply. It was necessarily vague, with warnings about signing contracts and advice to concentrate on domestic issues during the year ahead. It finished with the innocuous comment that a friend would like to hear from you.

  Which, Helen seemed to remember, was how the starred forecast had ended the last time she’d read it. She turned to her own reading, decided it had no application whatever, and dropped the paper back on the table.

  *

  Over supper, Stella inquired how her day had gone.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it,’ Helen replied. ‘Both the lectures were interesting and I was pleased to find I remember more about antiques than I realised.’ She paused and glanced at Gordon, who, paying no attention to the conversation, was staring down at his plate. ‘I believe you know someone in my class,’ she said.

  He didn’t look up and Stella leant forward to touch his arm. ‘Darling, Helen’s speaking to you.’

  He looked at her blankly. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘There’s someone in my class whom I think you know,’ Helen repeated. ‘Valentine Perry? He writes for Broadshire Life.’

  ‘Lord, have you been saddled with him? You want to watch your step, he can be spiteful.’

  ‘I’ve already blotted my copybook. He caught me flicking through the magazine and assumed I was looking for his article when I was actually looking for yours.’

  ‘You didn’t enlighten him, I hope?’

  She nodded ruefully and Gordon shook his head in mock despair. ‘Then watch your back. He’ll take it as a personal slight.’

  Kate said impatiently, ‘I can’t be doing with people who take offence. Life’s too short to have to stop and think before you say anything.’

  ‘Although, my love, it sometimes makes for a more harmonious existence,’ Nicholas observed.

  Helen turned back to Gordon. ‘Michael told me you’re Stargazer in the local paper.’

  Stella said quickly, ‘It’s only a stopgap, till he can get started as a serious astrologer. He has a real gift — people have already approached him privately.’

  ‘But surely you can’t be specific when doing mass forecasts? You must have to rely sometimes on time-honoured phrases like “Someone is waiting to hear from you.”’

  Across the table Kate drew in her breath sharply, and Helen found to her consternation that everyone was staring at her.

  She said hastily, ‘I’m not trying to decry it; it must be extremely difficult when you’re dealing with large numbers. I only meant that phrases like that would probably apply to everyone.’

  Stella, suddenly pale, again came to her husband’s defence. ‘Gordon’s very conscientious, even with newspaper horoscopes. He spends hours up in his study, consulting the charts and checking that everything’s accurate.’

  ‘Oh come on, Stella,’ Michael Saxton protested. ‘With the greatest respect, Helen’s right; everyone takes those things with a pinch of salt. How could it be otherwise, when one twelfth of the world’s population is told to expect a letter on a certain day? The global posta
l service would sink under the strain!’

  Stella smiled uncertainly and Helen flashed him a grateful glance. If she’d realised this was such a touchy subject she’d never have raised it. So much for Kate’s disdain of people who took offence!

  ‘No one claims it’s an exact science,’ Gordon said defensively. ‘There are always shifting influences which can alter aspects. All we try to do is show tendencies, interpretations.’

  There was a brief silence. Then Terry Pike made some comment on an entirely different subject and the suddenly fraught atmosphere dissolved; though Helen was disconcerted, on glancing across the table, to find Kate’s dark eyes still consideringly on her. It appeared she had inadvertently blotted her copybook a second time.

  *

  Hannah was locking her front door as Webb came down from his flat the next morning. He waited for her and they descended the last flight together.

  ‘How was the party on Saturday?’ he inquired.

  ‘Very good, as always. The usual fabulous food.’

  ‘And company?’

  ‘Well up to standard. Monica and George were there. In fact, I’m going to a fashion show at Randall Tovey’s this evening.’

  Webb made no comment. He had met the couple during the course of a murder investigation, which, he thought regretfully, was how he seemed to meet most people. Miss Tovey, she’d been then, was a long-term friend of Hannah’s.

  Hannah, glancing sideways at his grave face, said contritely, ‘I’m so sorry about Paris. Did you enjoy your free weekend?’

  ‘I did some painting. And Chris Ledbetter called to say they’d found the hit-and-run car — here in Shillingham, if you please. It had been stolen, naturally, and there was no sign of the driver.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll find something to give them a lead.’

  On emerging from the front door they separated, Webb turning towards the garages and Hannah to the gate for her short walk to Ashbourne.

  He hadn’t forgiven her for being with Charles, she thought as she started down the hill. But Charles was a governor of the school and there was no way she could avoid seeing him, even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t, she told herself rebelliously. David would have to learn to trust her. At which point the memory of Charles’s kiss brought a stab of guilt and, quickening her step, she determinedly put it out of her mind.

  *

  Sir Clifford Rudge was, as the class had anticipated, an out-standing speaker, and they listened enthralled as he sketched the social background to the artefacts shown in the slides, explaining that the fashions of the day influenced the style of furniture, and illustrating his point with the larger chairs introduced to accommodate the crinoline.

  Eager to learn all she could from him, she was thankful he would be with them for two days. She would willingly have listened indefinitely to his cultured voice, soaking up the knowledge he so effortlessly imparted.

  Valentine Perry continually tried to ingratiate himself with the lecturer and, though Helen knew the answers to several of the questions thrown to the class, she resolutely kept quiet. All the same, if the chance offered, she intended to have a word with Sir Clifford herself. He might be able to advise her on her hoped-for return to the world of antiques.

  *

  Webb had arrived at his office to be greeted with news of an attempted break-in at Beckworth House.

  ‘They slipped up on the alarm,’ Crombie told him. ‘Thought they’d disconnected it, but triggered it somehow once they were inside. It’s wired to Lethbridge, and as luck would have it, they had a car in the area.’

  ‘Any sight of the villains?’

  ‘Only fleeting. They fled into the grounds and presumably over the wall.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two, it seems, but no description. It was dark and they were only spotted at a distance.’ Crombie tipped his chair on to its back legs and regarded Webb over his spectacles. ‘No saying, of course, if this is Chummie or just a copycat job.’

  Webb said gloomily, ‘Probably the latter; Chummie hasn’t put a foot wrong so far. Was anything worthwhile found at the scene?’

  ‘Not so far, though the SOCOs are still up there. The villains broke a small pane of glass and managed to reach in and unlock the window. Once inside they opened the French windows for an easy getaway, and had to use it earlier than planned. There’s no report of anything missing.’

  Webb frowned. ‘Was there much in that room that they could have taken?’

  ‘Plenty, from all accounts.’

  ‘And they made no attempt to grab anything as they fled?’

  ‘Apparently not.’ Crombie paused. ‘I catch your drift. If they were that particular, perhaps it was Chummie after all.’

  ‘It crossed my mind,’ Webb conceded. ‘If it was, perhaps this will give him pause, make him wonder if his luck is running out at last.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ Crombie said caustically and, returning his chair to terra firma, pulled a pile of papers towards him.

  6

  Hannah always enjoyed visits to Randall Tovey’s; there was a feeling of luxury about the place, and the assistants under the redoubtable Miss Tulip were efficient and helpful, reluctant to sell an outfit, however expensive, unless it was right for that particular customer.

  In the foyer on this cold January evening a log fire blazed fiercely, and uniformed waitresses stood ready with trays of sherry glasses.

  The normal displays of accessories — belts, hats, shoes and handbags — had been removed, and their places taken by chairs arranged in a semi-circle, with a printed programme on each seat. The models would, as always, descend the wide, shallow staircase, display themselves to the assembled company, and retire through the tearoom, returning upstairs by way of the back stairs to change quickly and reappear in another outfit. And afterwards, wine and canapés would be served in the upstairs showroom.

  Hannah took her glass of sherry and looked about her with pleasurable anticipation. Such was the reputation of the store that the biannual fashion shows were considered part of the social calendar and invitations much sought after. These had been collected at the door by a uniformed attendant, and failure to produce one resulted in a polite denial of admission.

  The smartest, and some of the wealthiest, women in the county milled happily about, greeting friends and discreetly taking stock of each other’s clothes. Hannah nodded to the mothers of several of her girls as she went to join her friend Dilys Hayward. But just as she reached her, Miss Tulip took up a position on the bottom stair and clapped her hands.

  ‘If you would take your seats, ladies, the show is about to begin.’

  ‘Sounds like the City Varieties!’ Dilys whispered irreverently as they sat down in the front row of chairs. Once everyone was seated, Monica Latimer came down the staircase, casually elegant in a lavender cashmere two-piece, and stopped on the bottom step which Miss Tulip had now vacated.

  ‘Your Grace, Your Ladyships, distinguished guests, ladies. Good evening and welcome to the preview of our spring collections. I’m delighted so many of you were able to come, and hope you will have an enjoyable evening. If you have a particular interest in any of the clothes modelled Miss Tulip or one of her assistants will be available to answer your queries during the refreshments.

  ‘Now, if you would like to refer to your programmes, I’ll take you through the collections as the girls come down. And to begin the evening —’

  One after another, the latest designs of world-famous couturiers were paraded before them. Suits, dresses, sportswear and ball gowns followed each other in a succession of dazzling colours, perfect cut and luxurious fabrics, ending, as always, with three or four outstanding wedding dresses. It was faultlessly stage-managed, and glancing round at the rapt faces, Hannah estimated Randall Tovey’s would be several thousand pounds in profit as a result of this evening’s entertainment. She might even succumb to one of the cocktail dresses herself, though she and Dilys had been invited as personal friends rathe
r than customers.

  Overheard comments as they made their slow way upstairs confirmed Hannah’s impression of the success of the occasion. Monica stood at the top, shaking hands and receiving congratulations from her guests. Hannah and Dilys, who had arranged to meet her later, paused only briefly to add their own before moving to the long buffet table to fill their plates. Already the assistants were being cornered by prospective buyers anxious to make appointments for fittings.

  Lady Ursula Rudge was sitting on one of the couches, a glass of wine in her hand and a plate on her lap. Hannah steered Dilys in her direction. ‘Lady Ursula, how are you? I don’t think you’ve met my friend, Dilys Hayward?’

  The older woman’s face lit with interest. ‘The author? My dear, how exciting! I’m reading one of your books at the moment.’

  Dilys smiled. ‘I hope you’re enjoying it?’

  ‘Immensely. It’s the one they did on television a few years back — I’m afraid I can’t remember the title.’

  ‘Changing Times,’ Dilys supplied.

  ‘That’s the one — the family saga. It brings back my own girlhood.’

  Hannah left them chatting and went to have a politic word with Christina French, whose daughter had caused some upsets the previous term. It struck her that Mrs French, as always impeccably dressed, was one of Randall Tovey’s best advertisements.

  It was crowded and hot in the upstairs room and the volume of conversation rose steadily. Nevertheless, Hannah was enjoying herself, greeting acquaintances, exchanging items of news and allowing her glass to be refilled by passing waitresses. Eventually, catching sight of Monica further down the room, she started towards her, intending to ask how soon they could escape to the Vine Leaf for a quiet chat.

  But Miss Tulip reached Monica first, caught hold of her arm and pulled her urgently aside.