“I regret to inform you there has been a serious incident. Victor Swann has died, apparently after taking a fall down the rear servants’ staircase. The police have been called, as have the ambulance service.”
A mixture of tears and stunned disbelief greeted Ryan’s statement. He looked among the faces of the crowd to see who might have been the female voice during the little tête-à-tête he had overheard but nobody stood out and Martin Henderson was now mingling with the crowd as if he had never left them.
“What do you mean, dead?”
The man stepped forward to place himself firmly in charge, imperious red robes flapping around his knees.
“I mean precisely what I say,” Ryan said mildly.
“I’m going to see for myself.” Henderson turned as if to head for the door but Ryan took a subtle step forward.
“The party is over.” His tone brooked no argument. “Acting in my capacity as detective chief inspector, I would kindly ask you all to remain seated until we have taken care of Victor through the appropriate channels. Statements will be taken from each of you in turn but, until then—”
“If you think I’m going to sit around here all night, you’ve got another thing coming.”
Ryan was silent for a full ten seconds, allowing the tension to build, then he gave Henderson a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Do you have something more important to do than assist the police? I wonder if I should draw any inferences from that.”
A slow flush spread across Henderson’s neck and Ryan thought that, for a glorified pen-pusher, the man certainly had a temper. Tight-lipped, Henderson shrank back into the crowd and began to speak in disgruntled tones to anybody who would listen.
Ignoring him, Ryan turned back to the others.
“I realise you’re all tired and ready to go home. We won’t keep you any longer than necessary.”
“Chief inspector?”
Cassandra Gilbert walked back into the drawing room and looked among the crowd of upset faces.
“Has something happened?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it has. Your husband’s valet has been found dead in the exterior courtyard downstairs. The police have been called.”
“Victor?”
She lost all colour beneath her tan.
“I—I can’t believe it. Did he have a heart attack or something?”
“I’m afraid it’s too early to say. Is your husband well enough to join us?”
Cassandra shook her head slowly.
“I’m sorry, he’s fast asleep upstairs. I’ve just been to check on him,” she explained.
Ryan gave her a steady look.
“I’m sorry to inconvenience either of you but I’ll need to speak with Mr Gilbert to confirm his statement about tonight’s events.”
“Why? He hasn’t even been downstairs.”
Ryan thought privately that, in a house of this size, it would be easy enough for somebody to sneak downstairs without being seen.
“I would appreciate your cooperation.”
If she was bothered by the tone of command, Cassandra didn’t show it and began to usher her guests back to their seats.
Just then, Ryan’s sharp ears detected the unmistakable tread of heavy footsteps along the gallery, followed by a loud, jaw-cracking yawn which preceded the entrance of his sergeant into the drawing room.
Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips was a short barrel of a man in his mid-fifties with a boxer’s physique hidden beneath what he liked to call his ‘winter hibernation layer’, regardless of the fact it was high summer. His salt-and-pepper hair was thinning on top and framed a pair of button-brown eyes that missed very little. He came to an abrupt halt as he spotted Ryan, who remained dressed like an extra from a Victorian melodrama, and let out a rumbling belly laugh he couldn’t have hoped to contain.
“Frank,” Ryan injected a note of warning into his voice but it was waved away with one stubby, workmanlike hand.
“Nobody told us the circus was in town!”
Ryan drew in a long, steadying breath.
“Well, now you’ve had your money’s worth, would it be too much to ask you to take down some statements?”
Still chuckling to himself, Phillips gave Ryan a playful slap on the back.
“Aye, keep your hair on,” he said but was already thinking of who he would tell first back at CID and practically rubbed his hands together. “Faulkner’s van’s parked outside and there’s a patrol car on the way. No sign of a doctor, yet, but one’s been called.”
Ryan nodded.
“Did you see the body?”
Phillips pulled an expressive face.
“Aye, poor old bugger. Took a tumble in the dark, did he?”
Ryan lowered his voice a fraction.
“That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it?”
Phillips rubbed a hand across the stubble on his jaw and gave Ryan a keen look.
“If you believed that, you wouldn’t have bothered calling me all the way out here. It doesn’t take two murder detectives to decide whether one old man’s death is a matter for CID.”
Ryan gave him a knowing smile.
“Let’s just say I want a second opinion.”
*
While two bleary-eyed constables set to work taking statements, Ryan and Phillips headed outside. Their feet crunched across the gravel as they rounded the side of the house to the courtyard where they spotted Tom Faulkner, who was already suited up in his polypropylene overalls and struggling to contain his mousy brown hair beneath a white plastic cap. A large spotlight had been erected outside, powered by the mobile generator in Faulkner’s nondescript black van. It shone a blazing white light on the area surrounding Victor’s body, highlighting the greying pallor of his skin and fixed, bloodshot expression of his eyes as they stared out into the night. “Evening, Tom.” Ryan shook the other man’s hand before accepting a pair of nitrile gloves. “Thanks for coming out here at short notice.”
Faulkner adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses and, not for the first time, Ryan wondered why the man didn’t wear contacts and save himself the hassle.
“No problem. I wasn’t entertaining a hot date,” he laughed self-deprecatingly. “Might as well take a drive out and see the stars.”
All three men looked up at the sky, which was awash with stars glistening diamond-bright.
“You ought to find yourself a nice lass and go stargazing,” Phillips remarked, in his usual fatherly manner. “Got the observatory up at Kielder, some canny walks and that.”
Faulkner fidgeted inside his suit.
“My ex-wife never wanted to,” he muttered. “She wasn’t much of an outdoorsy type. I don’t seem to have much luck finding someone who enjoys the simple things in life.”
Ryan and Phillips exchanged a surprised glance. Faulkner had divulged more personal information in the past few moments than he had in the last five years of working together.
Momentarily at a loss, Ryan cleared his throat.
“Well—”
“Let’s get started,” Faulkner cut him off, feeling awkward. “You told me this man—Victor Swann?—headed out to find the fuse box located through that doorway?”
He pointed a gloved finger toward the door leading to the basement.