Murder in the Cotswolds (12 page)

Kate tried again with Bruce McLeod early on Sunday morning. The estate manager’s house was a quarter of a mile across the park from the Grange. It stood in a pretty dell, with bluebells and pink campion carpeting the leafy slopes. But the house itself was a hideous Victorian-Gothic cottage, pretentiously turreted, a sacrilegious use of Cotswold stone.

McLeod answered the door with obvious reluctance. He’d spotted her arrival from a window.

“Chief Inspector ... Maddox, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, Mr. McLeod. I’d like a word, if I may. Perhaps I could come in?”

“Oh very well. You’re lucky to have caught me at home. I just popped back for a bite of breakfast.” He led the way into a small living room that was tidy with a military-style precision. Even the ornaments seemed to be standing to attention. “You haven’t got one of your male lackeys with you today, Chief Inspector,” he remarked sarcastically.

“Not today, Mr. McLeod.” From kindness of heart she’d allowed Tim Boulter the chance of a Sunday lie-in, telling him to report at noon. “We don’t always hunt in pairs.”

“Hunt?”

“That’s what I said. Hunt for the truth. I understand from Mr. Latimer that his wife terminated your contract with her. Is that correct?”

“That’s my business. No one else’s.”

“It’s very definitely police business now. This is a murder enquiry. So it’s true, then?”

“Mrs. Latimer was a damned unreasonable woman. If you didn’t see exactly eye to eye with her, you were out.”

“What was it that you and Mrs. Latimer didn’t see eye to eye about?”

McLeod snorted a laugh. “Better to ask me what we
did
agree about. You’d get a much shorter answer.”

“I believe she didn’t approve of the way you handled the buying of the farm supplies?”

“Did Latimer tell you that?”

“Just give me the facts, please.”

He shrugged. “It was one of our points of disagreement.”

“Mrs. Latimer believed that you were making a personal profit at her expense?”

McLeod muttered a curse under his breath. “That woman sometimes got the craziest ideas in her head.”

“So if I set up an official investigation into your purchasing practices, we’d find nothing out of order?” A bluff, but it worked.

“Okay, so what if I did make a bit on the side? That sort of thing is regarded as a little perk of the job. No harm’s done. It’s just a matter of buying from one supplier rather than another.”

“And paying over the odds?”

“Just a fraction, perhaps.”

“A fraction extra on a huge volume of buying can amount to a considerable sum,” Kate pointed out. “Wasn’t your main supplier related to you, Mr. McLeod?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Your brother-in-law, I believe?”

He glared at her with loathing. “Since you seem to know it all, why bother to ask?”

“When is it that you’ll be finishing your job here?”

“Two weeks yesterday. So?”

“So I’ll be in touch with you again before then.” Kate turned away as if to go, then swung back to him. “There’s one other point I want to ask you about. I understand that you were within earshot when there was a noisy set-to between Mrs. Latimer and her groom, Ted West.”

McLeod delayed answering, then apparently decided there was nothing to be lost in admitting it. “Yes I was, as a matter of fact.”

“When was this? Which day? At what time?”

He considered. “Last Friday, yes, that’s right. It would have been round about ten-thirty in the morning.”

“What exactly was said between them?”

“I didn’t hear all the details. She was accusing him of stealing something or other—which wouldn’t surprise me.”

“But she sacked you, yet she didn’t sack West. So seemingly she regarded your offence as worse than anything he might have done.”

Clearly, McLeod hadn’t missed her drift. “You needn’t get the idea that I’m bothered about losing this job. It’s nothing special. I can do a lot better for myself.”

“I’m glad to hear it. By the way, what was your relationship with Mr. Latimer?”

“Mr.
Latimer? I had nothing to do with him. Well ... almost nothing. She owned the estate, not him. It was she who laid down the law around here.”

“But now that Mrs. Latimer is dead, would you stay on in your job, if asked?”

“Why? Has he said anything about wanting me to?” The flare of hope in McLeod’s voice contradicted his bragging about getting better employment.

“The question didn’t arise,” said Kate dismissively. “Before I leave, I’d like you to give me an account of your movements on Tuesday evening.”

She watched the debate in his eyes, as if he was alert for hidden traps. His story was released bit by bit, grudgingly.

“I can tell you where I was. No problem. I spent the whole evening with my brother-in-law.”

“Where?”

“In Marlingford.”

“Where in Marlingford?”

“At his house. Willow Crescent. Number fourteen.”

Kate scribbled it down. “So he and your sister could verify that?”

“Not Fiona, she wasn’t there. She’d gone to stay the night with a friend who was expecting a baby any minute.”

“I see. What time did you arrive, Mr. McLeod, and what time did you leave?”

A pause for reflection. “About half past seven I got there. I didn’t leave till ... it must have been after midnight.”

“Quite late for someone who has to be up at the crack of dawn?”

“Yes, well ... we were watching a film on TV and it didn’t finish until close on twelve. Cliff will tell you.”

“This brother-in-law is the one to whom you gave the estate business?”

McLeod looked rattled now. “Well yes, as a matter of fact, but what difference does that make?”

Kate allowed her eyebrows to rise expressively, but she made no comment and took her leave.

* * * *

Back at the Incident Room, a message awaited her. Mr. Richard Gower had phoned, and would she please ring him back at his home number. With her hand on the phone, Kate hesitated, afraid of what might be coming. A confession? Please God, not a confession.

It was anything but a confession. “Oh hello,” Gower greeted her when he answered. “Listen, don’t you agree that this farce has gone on quite long enough? Why don’t we meet and thrash things out? How about dinner this evening? At the Black Swan.”

Kate’s self-possession deserted her. “You have to be joking.”

“You don’t like the idea?”

“You must know it’s out of the question. This is a murder investigation I’m engaged on. I can’t discuss it with you over the dinner table.”

Kate heard his impatient sigh. “Then what do you suggest? We’ve obviously got to talk.”

“If you have something to tell me, it will have to be in my office or yours. Mine, for preference.”

“I’ve a better plan. If you don’t think you should be seen with me in public just now, you could come round to my flat this evening. My cooking’s not bad, when I make an effort.”

“Forget it,” she said irritably. “I can see you tomorrow morning. In Marlingford,” she added. For some obscure reason Kate didn’t want to conduct this interview at Chipping Bassett with all the frenzied activity of the murder squad going on around them.

“At Divisional Headquarters?” he asked.

“That’s right. Shall we make it ten o’clock, Mr. Gower?”

For the remainder of the day Kate found it hard to concentrate. This being Sunday, she allowed herself to go home for lunch. Her aunt, though, had forgotten all about food. She was in the garden, clipping the yew hedge.

“Oh, Kate, I’m sorry. When I’m engrossed in something I just forget about time.”

“You and me both; it runs in the family. Not to worry, Felix, I don’t expect you to wait on me. I’ll put lunch together.”

Kate raided the fridge and found some roast beef. She made sandwiches American style, a heavy-handed filling of sliced meat and salad between slices of whole wheat bread. She carried the food and coffee out on a tray for them to eat in the shade of the magnolia tree, which at the moment was a cloud of waxy pink blossoms.

Felix went indoors to wash her hands, and came back carrying a large buff envelope.

“Those photos you wanted me to look out for you,” she explained. “You’ve a selection there.”

“Oh thanks.” Kate had asked her aunt for what pictures of Belle Latimer she might have in her files, thinking that the occasional reminder of the murdered woman’s face might give her an insight into the motive for the killing. Glancing through them, she said, “These are damned good, Felix. Everything I’ve heard about Belle is revealed in that face. You’re a real whiz with a camera, aren’t you?”

“No need to pile it on, girl.”

Kate couldn’t help smiling at one of the photos, where Belle was the central figure of a small group at some equestrian event. “This one here, it looks as if Belle was really ranting off about something.”

“And how! It was a terribly wet day and the organisers wanted to cancel. But Belle Latimer put her foot down. She expected to carry off the gold cup and she wasn’t going to be cheated out of her triumph by a mere torrential downpour.”

“And she got her way?”

“As always. But instead of carrying off the cup, she was carried off herself to the first-aid tent. Her horse skidded on the wet grass and threw her. Everyone had a good laugh behind their hands.”

Among the crowd of unfamiliar faces Kate spotted Alison Knight, got up like all the others in gumboots, a raincoat, and sou’wester.

“They deserved a laugh,” she commented. “None of the spectators look very happy here.”

“I don’t know why they bothered to turn up at all in weather like that. Me, I had to be there, and I had the devil’s own job keeping water off my lens.” Felix picked up a sandwich and peeled back the bread to inspect the filling, nodding in satisfaction. “You shouldn’t have to work on a Sunday.”

“Tell that to the criminal classes.”

Felix licked pickle off her finger pensively. “I’m surprised you haven’t got around to arresting Richard Gower yet. I mean, knowing that it was his car, and he having no real alibi. It’s being whispered that there must have been something going on between him and Belle Latimer.”

Kate nearly choked on a piece of crust. “I hope to God they’re not getting that sort of speculation from you.”

“Now she accuses me of being a garrulous old woman.”

Apologise, Kate!

“Sorree.”

“Which is no more than you should be, girl.” Her aunt winked at Kate and took another bite.

* * * *

The sound of a rich contralto voice throbbed across the road as Kate parked her car in the lay-by opposite Old Toll-House Cottage. It broke off, then went back a couple of lines and began again. Kate crossed the road and rang the doorbell. Alison would be expecting her; she’d phoned in advance to check that it would be convenient to drop by.

“Hello, Kate. It must be urgent to bring you to see me on a Sunday afternoon.”

Kate laughed. “When I’m on a case, Sunday is just another working day to me. I heard you singing from over the road.”

“Oh Lord, does it carry that far? I’ll have to shut the windows when I’m practising, or my neighbours will be complaining.”

“I thought it sounded great. You have a wonderful voice, Alison. From
King’s Rhapsody,
wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. I’m playing Countess Vera Lemainken in the Troubadours’ next production. I take the chance to practice whenever I can.” Alison led the way through the living room and out to a small patio at the back.

“When are you putting the show on?” asked Kate.

“In three weeks’ time. We always do four performances, Wednesday to Saturday. Can I persuade you to come?”

“I’d like to, work permitting. I could bring my aunt.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Alison indicated a padded garden chair. “Take the weight off.”

“Thanks.” Kate sat down, crossing her legs comfortably. “What I’d like is for us to have an off-the-record chat. In strict confidence.”

About to take a seat herself, Alison paused. “Off the record?”

“The other day,” Kate reminded her, “we were talking about the Leisure Centre fund and Mr. Prescott. I do see that you don’t wish to be disloyal to your employer. But this really is important. Very important.”

Slowly, Alison lowered herself into the chair. “It’s a murder investigation you’re concerned with, Kate, not the question of whether or not some piffling charitable funds have gone astray. Are you saying that the two are connected in some way?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“But you suspect they are? Who’ve you been talking to, to give you that idea?”

Kate shook her head. “Come on, Alison, you know better than to ask me that. So, back to my question. Did you ever get a hint, the merest suspicion, that something funny was going on?”

“Funny?”

“Well, for instance, was there anything about Mr. Prescott’s recent behaviour that struck you as unusual or out of character?”

Kate held her breath for a yes answer. A yes would go partway to bearing out Richard Gower’s story. The pause was a long one, so she thought she was out of luck. But then Alison said in a doubtful voice, “Well, it’s nothing definite, but ... a few weeks ago Mr. Prescott did let slip that he’d lost a lot of money at the races.

Ever since then, I suppose it’s true that he’s not really been himself.”

“How? Can you explain?”

Alison pondered a moment. “In the normal way he’s very fussy about things being done exactly right. But that aside, he’s normally pleasant and cheerful. Just lately, though, he’s been quite bad-tempered. Really snappy sometimes, so perhaps ...”

“Do you happen to know the name of his bookmaker?”

“Are you going to question them?”

“Yes, but you won’t be brought into it.”

“Well, there’s a silver ashtray on Mr. Prescott’s desk. It has the name Porter and Brown engraved on it. They’re turf accountants in Marlingford.”

You missed that, Kate. You’ re no Sherlock Holmes!

“Can you think of anything else that might be helpful?”

“Sorry, I don’t think so.” Alison stood up. “Will you stay for a cup of tea?”