Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Months passed. The village ignored the Big House, as far as it was able, and the Big House certainly ignored the village, apart from one or two young women, one of whom shortly implored her intended to marry her out of hand, the other disappearing to London, but not before the results of her activities had started to show. Less frequently, sometimes not for weeks at a time, guests surged up the still-ungated drive, hampers of food and drink jostling for space. Perhaps Winspeare’s sins would have been easier to forgive if he’d shopped locally, but no, names like Fortnum and Mason and Harrods bedecked all the provisions. Jemima Pearce’s attempts to bring the house to order were as vain as the villagers’ hopes that the cricket field might be reinstated.

Then, one day, a miracle seemed to be in progress. Men with measuring tapes were seen down by the drive. George went to look himself. Yes, a team of navvies — Irish to a man, by the sound of them — was digging deep. They were ready to build foundations. He didn’t know whether to weep with delight that the hours and days of planning and drawing had not been fruitless, or to knock the head off the man who’d used his ideas without paying for them and without using his men.

Jemima counselled his previous approach. “It paid off last time, didn’t it? You just want to catch him on his own and have a quiet word. Quiet, mind, George. I mean, Mr. Hardy.”

George was walking home after Evensong one Sunday, trying desperately how he could save the church tower without bankrupting either himself or the church. There was Mr. Winspeare, flash in boater and white flannels, standing by his parked car, staring into the footings of the new gateposts. They were much bigger than those on his drawings — George could see that, even though mist was beginning to swirl up the valley.

“Your drawings?” Winspeare looked completely blank. “Oh, I talked to some London wallah. Your design was...” He scuffed at a stone.

“Plain, like. Very plain. In keeping with the house, sir.”

“Plain? Oh, old hat, old boy. These days you’ve got Art Nouveau or Arts and Crafts and all sorts of things to choose from. I fancy something a bit classier, myself. No, you oicks from the sticks wouldn’t understand.”

“I could have built whatever you wanted, sir.”

“Something like this?”

“Something like what?”

Winspeare raised his eyes heavenwards, then managed a smile that might in anyone else have been apologetic. “Of course, you haven’t seen the drawings, have you? Well, my man, present yourself sometime tomorrow, and if I have a moment, I might show them to you — then you can see the difference between provincial sketches and real architecture.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt you when you’re with all your friends,” George protested.

“Living the bachelor life at the moment. Mind you, I’m off tomorrow evening — motoring down to join them at the coast. Spot of tootling round the Continent, don’t you know.”

The slang sounded odd coming from a man George realised wasn’t quite as young as he made himself out to be.

“That’ll be nice, sir. So what time shall I come — about four?”

“Why not?” Winspeare waved an idle hand and got back into his car, which purred away like a well-trained animal. Not the sort of noises that were coming, these days, from George’s lorry.

It being a fine afternoon, George gently walked up to the Big House. No point in hurrying. Whatever time he arrived, he was sure Winspeare would keep him waiting. And there was no work in the village, none that would pay, anyway. On his way up, he passed a dismal Reg Cobbold shrugging on a coat. “Being sent on errands at my age,” he was grumbling. “Why doesn’t the man keep proper staff? He says he’s going to when the place is finished, of course.”

“That’s good news,” George said.

“Hmph,” Reg replied. “He’ll get them through some London register office, you mark my words. He’ll turn his nose up at any of us, same as he did your plans — you see if he doesn’t.” Off he stomped.

George knocked at the back door, hoping to be admitted by Jemima. But there was no response, so he let himself in, calling softly as he did so. No Jemima; no Reg — how could he find Winspeare? He couldn’t go round yelling and throwing open doors, could he?

Perhaps Jemima was resting in her room — an unlikely situation, knowing Jemima, but worth checking. No. No sign of her.

He was just scratching his head over the whole business when he heard a scream and a crash. Then another scream.

He ran blindly till he found the source of the commotion. Winspeare’s library, by the looks of it. Unrolled on the table were two sets of architectural drawings. But Winspeare wasn’t looking at either of them. He was lying facedown, his blood and what George knew must be his brains oozing from his temple. Beside him lay a paperweight. Shuddering and screaming, alternately staring at her bloodstained hands and wringing them, stood Jemima, a foot from him. Her bodice was torn to the waist: No need to guess what Winspeare had been doing.