Passing Strange (23 page)

“Tell what?”

“We promised,” said Pearson with his grandfather's obstinacy.

“I see.” The schoolmaster was experienced enough to know when to take the heat off. “He promised not to tell about your playing about with the tomatoes. That right?”

Both boys nodded.

“Only if you boys didn't tell anyone about something he was doing?”

“That's right, sir,” said Smithson eagerly. “We said we wouldn't, didn't we, Pete? It was a bargain, he said.”

“Ah,” said Norman Burton.

“We promised,” said Pearson implacably. “It was a bargain, like he said.”

“He was only hiding something anyway,” squeaked Smithson ingenuously. “We only moved it for fun. Not far. Just so as he wouldn't find it.”

Norman Burton was neither a fool nor a coward. He saw the need to go very carefully indeed. “Under where the tomatoes were, I suppose?” he said as casually as he could contrive to do so. He had just remembered something from the evening before – when they had been striking the marquee. He had remembered who it was who had been so keen to get his hands on what had been found.

And worked out why it mattered that he touched it.

Peter Pearson was not deceived by the casual approach.

“We promised,” he repeated with dignity.

Neither Mark Smithson nor the headmaster took any notice of this.

“That's all right,” said Norman Burton with every appearance of his usual omniscience. “It was a reel of green wire, wasn't it?”

Smithson nodded, a troubled look on his face. “We didn't tell, though, did we, sir?”

Peter Pearson continued to look stubborn. Perhaps, thought the schoolmaster in a moment of detachment, when the time came he'd recommend that he went into the Army. There was a lad who would always obey the last order …

“You just guessed, sir,” piped up Smithson anxiously, “didn't you?”

“I did,” said Burton sternly. Smithson would have to be found a less exacting career. “And I think I can guess what you did next.”

They didn't answer this so Burton went on himself.

“Then,” he said with deep foreboding, “you watched those tomatoes for the rest of the afternoon, didn't you?”

He knew he was right about that. It had all been part of the fun.

“Get your clothes on,” he said with a brusqueness that could not quite mask the very great deal of anxiety that he felt, “and come with me. I'm not letting either of you out of my sight.”

“You'd better sit down, Crosby, and take the weight off your brain.”

Detective-Inspector Sloan had selected a spot of grass on which to settle himself. It was by the old stables and looked out at the spot where Madame Zelda's tent had been. He was sitting on the grass with his back up against the stable wall. It was not long before he had a hunk of bread and cheese in one hand and a sheaf of written statements in the other. They were the statements made after the reel of wire had been found when the marquee was being dismantled.

He read them at the same time as he made healthy inroads into his ploughman's lunch. Even so, he hadn't eaten his meal at the same rate as Crosby had got through his.

“That was good,” said the constable, pursuing the last silvery onion round his plate. “I feel much better now.”

“So do I,” said Sloan. He, though, was not talking about his stomach. “Did you see Edward Hebbinge go?”

“I did.” Crosby caught the onion. “He said something about fetching us some tea.”

“Did he?” said Sloan absently. He had a lot of thinking to do and not a lot of time in which to do it. “What we haven't got, Crosby, is any –”

“Sorry, sir,” interposed the constable, “I forgot the salt.”

Sloan sighed. At least Dr Watson had had a mind above food.

“Now that I've seen Norman Burton,” Sloan said more explicitly, “I can safely say that the only thing that we're short of in this case is any sign of a motive.”

The commission of murder rested on a three-legged stool. Those three legs were motive, means and opportunity. In that order. Sloan knew now about the means and the opportunity. He said to Crosby that he had no idea why murder had been done. He couldn't for the life of him think of a motive.

“Gain,” said Crosby simply. “It's always gain, sir.”

“No, it isn't,” said Sloan, irritated. “There's revenge. You should know that.”

“Sorry, sir, so there is. I was forgetting. There was that man last month who carved up his wife's fancy man down by the railway sidings, wasn't there? That was revenge all right.”

“He'd have killed his wife, too, if Sergeant Gelven hadn't got there first,” said Sloan with spirit. Policemen were maids of all work. “That was something else.”

“Jealousy, I suppose.” Crosby swept up the last of the pickle on his plate. “The green eye of the little yellow god.”

Sloan added another class of murder to revenge and jealousy.

“Lust of killing,” he said shortly. “Don't forget that.” That was the one that no one at the police station liked. You never knew where or when that sort of killer was going to strike again. And again. And again. Rhyme and reason didn't come into it. One Jack the Ripper on the loose and nobody in the Force slept easy. Then even the War Duties Officer was likely to be asked to put aside his files on nuclear holocaust and get out on to the beat.

Crosby had been thinking along other – quite different – lines. “It's one way of getting rid of the opposition too, isn't it, sir? Some countries go in for that, don't they?”

“Elimination,” said Sloan briskly. “There's another class of murder a bit nearer home for you, too.” He was after all, supposed to be teaching the lad, wasn't he?

“Sir?”

“Murder from conviction.”

“From conviction?” Crosby paused, puzzled. “Death in police custody, you mean, sir?”

“Good God no.” That was the last thing any constable should be thinking of. “Killing from conviction, Crosby, not by conviction. Listen,” he said in despair, “do you remember those letter bombs we had last year?”

“'Course I do, sir. Nasty little things.” He put his plate down carefully on the grass beside him. “I must say those onions were just the job.”

Detective-Inspector Sloan abandoned his role of lecturer. The descent from the sublime to the ridiculous was too much for him. He would leave Oliver Cromwell out of it. He continued to eat his own cheese and pickle in silence. All this did was to conjure up the image of Superintendent Leeyes. That worthy officer, too, had enjoined upon Sloan to find out who benefited most from Nurse Cooper's death.

And with the same simplicity.

Presently he said aloud “Strictly speaking, of course, the Court doesn't need to be shown a motive in a murder case, but –”

“Excuse me, sir, but are you ready for your fruit pie yet?”

“Don't worry about me,” said Sloan with a mild sarcasm quite lost upon his subordinate. “You carry on.”

“Thank you, sir.” The constable reached for the paper bag.

“And perhaps,” he added pleasantly, “when you've quite finished your pie you'll bend your mind to our other problem.” Who was he, Sloan, to stand between a fellow officer and his hunger pangs?

“Sir?”

“I know that the Prosecution doesn't have to present a motive to the jury –” that, in his view, only underlined the dream world in which some elements of the legal profession lived – “but the jury like it.”

Now he came to think of it, so too did the judge. Without some sign of a motive the judge was apt to rule that the murderer be detained until Her Majesty's pleasure be known.

“There'll be gain in it somewhere,” prophesied Crosby indistinctly. “And I'll tell you another thing, sir. Maurice Esdaile's not going to lose whatever happens.”

“True.” There was absolutely nothing of the born loser about Maurice Esdaile. “Now we must –”

“Sir, we've got company again.” They had already had Norman Burton.

Sloan looked up. “Ah, so we have.” Edward Hebbinge came round the corner with two steaming mugs of tea. “That's very kind of you, sir, I must say. Seems to be your role, doesn't it, sir, bringing the tea round.”

Hebbinge nodded. “I'm the one with the keys to the Priory.”

Sloan took a mug. “Move over, Crosby, and let the gentleman sit down.”

The land agent handed over some tea to Crosby. “That's all right, Inspector. I won't disturb you.”

“Do sit,” said Sloan expansively. “Here, between us. We're just about to reconstruct the crime. You might be able to help.”

“That's different,” said Hebbinge. “Anything that I can do …”

“You will,” Sloan finished for him.

Hebbinge gave him an odd look but settled himself down between the two policemen. “Naturally.”

“Reconstructions are all the rage these days,” said Sloan. “Preferably with someone of the same age and build as the victim acting the part.”

“To help jog the memory,” said Crosby. “Usually a week to the day afterwards.”

“Just so,” said Sloan. “To remind people of what they saw. Or what they thought they saw. It falls down some of the time.”

“People don't always remember properly,” agreed Hebbinge.

“Funny thing, memory,” said Crosby. He really had finished eating at last.

Sloan hadn't. He waved a piece of pie. “Actually, Mr Hebbinge, it's not too difficult to work out what happened yesterday.”

“No,” said the land agent thoughtfully, “I don't suppose it is.”

“Richenda Mellows turns up at the Flower Show,” began Sloan.

“Nothing to stop her doing that, Inspector,” said Hebbinge.

“And takes a look round to see what she can see that might help her cause.”

“Nothing wrong with that either, Inspector. The girl's only human, and though I say it myself the Priory is a very nice piece of England. Anyone in their right mind would want it.”

“Er – quite so.” Sloan took a bite of his pie. “Not only does she turn up but she has a nice quiet chat with Nurse Cooper.” He stared ruminatively at the rest of his pie. “I can't myself quite understand why she didn't think of doing that earlier. Perhaps someone told her it wasn't the same nurse after all these years and not to bother.”

“Perhaps.”

“Let's forget that for a moment.”

Hebbinge laughed uneasily. “If you say so, Inspector.”

“Nurse Cooper confirms that Richard Mellows's baby daughter had a strawberry mark,” went on Sloan.

“I thought that was only dukes,” said Crosby.

Hebbinge turned to him. “You're thinking of strawberry leaves, Officer.”

Crosby liked being called ‘officer'.

Sloan had not lost the thread of his disquisition. “Someone, however, has been keeping an eye on Richenda Mellows. When she comes out of Madame Zelda's tent –”

“Looking thoughtful?” suggested Crosby.

Sloan's lilies didn't need gilding but he let it pass. “After she came out he –”

“He?” said Edward Hebbinge swiftly.

“The murderer, sir.” Sloan's face was expressionless. “Am I going too quickly for you?”

“No, no, Inspector. Carry on. This is all very interesting.”

“After Richenda Mellows came out of the tent the murderer slipped in,” said Sloan. “He finds Nurse Cooper is full of joy. She can identify Richenda Mellows as the rightful owner of the Priory and put everyone out of their misery.”

“That would be progress,” said Hebbinge warmly.

“The murderer says he's pleased too,” postulated Sloan.

“But he isn't,” said Crosby.

Edward Hebbinge said nothing.

“He isn't at all pleased,” said Sloan.

“Why shouldn't he be pleased?” asked Hebbinge.

“Ah, sir, now you're asking. You could say,” said Sloan, “that you've put your finger on a weak spot. Shall we leave that particular point for the moment?”

It was the only one that troubled him now. The silly thing was that the answer was probably staring him in the face.

If he knew where to look.

Or what he was looking at.

The agent opened his hands. “As you please, Inspector.” He raised his eyebrows. “After all, it is your – er – reconstruction, isn't it?”

“Not being pleased,” continued Sloan imperturbably, “he goes away to think what he can do about it. He hasn't much time.”

“Why not?” asked Crosby.

“Perhaps Mr Hebbinge can answer that?” suggested Sloan.

“Not me, Inspector! You've got the wrong man for a quiz.”

“Pity,” said Sloan. “Never mind. It was worth a try. The murderer,” he explained, “hasn't much time because the District Nurse might well tell the next person who came in the same thing as she'd told him.”

“Ah,” said Crosby, satisfied.

“Am I right, sir,” Sloan asked Hebbinge, “in thinking that Joyce Cooper was a talkative woman?”

“You are,” said the land agent promptly. “Not indiscreet, mind you. I would say that she was never that. Just talkative. She was a friendly soul, Inspector. Popular with everyone.”

“Of course,” reasoned Sloan, “she would have no means of knowing that what she was saying could constitute a danger to anyone.”

“I must say, Inspector –” here Hebbinge gave a short laugh – “that I can't see myself that it could either. It seems a bit far-fetched.”

“Can't you, sir? The murderer must have thought it could, though.”

“Obviously,” conceded Hebbinge without argument, “or he wouldn't have done anything so terrible as kill her, would he? If, of course,” he added, “it was as you say and it was the Mellows connection that led to it.”

“Oh, it was, sir, it was. No doubt about that.” Sloan lifted the mug of tea that Hebbinge had brought to his lips but before drinking was apparently struck with another thought because he set it down again. “Once he had decided to kill her he had to find something to do it with.”