The Problem at Two Tithes (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7) (17 page)

‘Why, what’s the matter, inspector?’ she said. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Good morning, Mrs. Montgomery,’ he said. ‘I’m just returning to London as I am needed at Scotland Yard.’

She looked puzzled at his stiff reply, which was quite unlike his normal manner to her.

‘But what about Tom?’ she said.

‘It wasn’t strictly my case,’ he replied. ‘I was only looking in on it, so to speak. I’ve left it in the hands of Sergeant Primm and his inspector, when he returns. If you have anything new to report, you can speak to them.’

She regarded him questioningly, and he found himself unable to meet her gaze.

‘Something has happened, hasn’t it?’ she said after a pause. ‘Why are you really leaving?’

He knew he ought not to answer this, but he could not help himself.

‘Because I can’t be impartial,’ he said at last. She was silent, and he went on, ‘When someone is murdered a detective has to put aside his personal feelings and ask all kinds of unpleasant questions of people. Normally it doesn’t bother me, but in this case I’m finding it particularly distasteful, and I’ve realized I can’t—I ought not to continue.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Why are you finding it so distasteful?’

‘Because every question I ask seems to return an answer I don’t like,’ he said, ‘to the extent that I have been tempted to disregard vital evidence. I can’t do that and do my job properly, and so I am withdrawing from the case.’

‘I don’t quite understand. What evidence do you mean?’ she said. She hesitated. ‘Is it to do with Norman and—and me?’

He did not answer directly, but he did not need to, for his look was confirmation enough.

He said, ‘You know, of course, that Norman Tipping is the chief suspect in the case.’

‘Yes,’ said Kathie. ‘And I also know that everyone thinks we were in it together. I can quite see why they would. But you know we weren’t. You have Daniel Tyler’s word for it that we couldn’t have done it.’

‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, Tyler’s word counts for very little in this instance, and I knew it but said nothing. I ought to have spoken up days ago, but I didn’t.’

‘Why not?’ she said.

‘Because then I should have had to arrest you,’ he said quietly.

There was a silence as she digested what he had and had not said.

‘So you see, I’ve already compromised myself,’ went on Jameson. ‘I’ve withheld information and betrayed everything I stand for as a policeman, and that being so, I’m hardly fit to remain on the case. I’m doing wrong even by telling you all this.’

‘Norman didn’t do it,’ said Kathie suddenly. ‘And neither did I. Everything I’ve told you is true, I promise you. I haven’t lied, or kept anything from you. I simply couldn’t—not when you’ve been so kind to me and Peter. I would never lie to you, of all people. Please say you believe me, inspector. I can bear to be arrested, but I couldn’t bear it if you thought I’d been lying. Do you believe me?’ It was almost a whisper.

He looked into those bright blue eyes of hers.

‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘But I can’t ignore the evidence any longer, and that is why I am going back to London. I’m sorry.’

‘Of course you have to go,’ she said. ‘You’re right: you mustn’t compromise your integrity—I quite understand that. I should think the worse of you if you did.’

‘Thank you,’ he said.

She gazed at him steadily and he wished he could tell what she was thinking, but her expression was unreadable. Whether by accident or design they were standing very close together and he knew he ought to step away from her and get into the car now, but somehow he was unable to do it. Just then, a slight breeze blew a strand of hair across her cheek and before he knew what he was doing or could stop himself he had reached up and brushed it gently away. She caught her breath and they both froze, his hand still suspended in mid-air. For a long moment all he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears and the pounding of his own heart, then suddenly he was leaning closer to her and she was raising her face to his, and they would certainly have disgraced themselves there and then had they not been interrupted by a voice which hailed them at that moment from the head of the lane. They started guiltily and moved apart, and turned to see Norman Tipping approaching from the direction of the village. He looked cross and bothered—which was entirely understandable if he had spent the morning speaking to Sergeant Primm about his gambling debts—and he looked at Jameson resentfully when he reached them.

‘There you are, Kathie,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she replied, sounding flustered. ‘I was speaking to the inspector and got distracted.’

‘Shall we go?’ said Norman. ‘Mother is expecting us, and we are already late.’

‘All right,’ said Kathie. She threw Inspector Jameson a last startled glance but had no chance to say anything before she was urged away by Norman, and they walked off together. Jameson stood for a moment, attempting to recover himself, but without much success. He then got into his car and drove away, cursing his own stupidity. Had Norman Tipping not turned up just at that moment then who knew what might have happened? Or rather, he corrected himself, it was perfectly obvious what would have happened. He would have kissed Kathie Montgomery and then all would have been lost: the case would have been ruined and with it most likely his own reputation as a detective. His head and his heart were in a tumult. Of all the ridiculous things he had ever done, falling head over ears for a suspect in a murder case had to be the most idiotic. Whether she were innocent or guilty made no difference: she could never be his. Primm would get his warrant and arrest the two of them later today. If she was guilty she would go to gaol; if innocent then presumably she would marry Norman Tipping one day and be happy. Either way, it was nothing to do with him. All that was left for him to do now was to go home and get over her—if he could.

On Friday afternoon the sun came out, and so Angela went into the garden to admire the flowers and to think. She had been reflecting a good deal about the case and was beginning to get somewhat apprehensive about it. The point about the gunshot had occurred to her a few days ago, but since nothing had come of it she assumed the police must have had good reason to cling to Norman and Kathie’s supposed alibi. Still, several days had now passed without anything happening, and she was surprised at the inaction of Inspector Jameson, for whom she had the greatest respect. He had shown his feelings for Kathie Montgomery plainly enough, and Angela wondered whether they might not perhaps be affecting his ability to act. Until recently, she should have said that he would never compromise his own integrity, but when she thought of her own recent romantic entanglement, she was forced to admit that even the most upright of people—among whom she generally counted herself—might have their weaknesses on occasion. Here, her mind drifted back to Venice, and she had to check herself. Drat the man! Why did the thought of him always make her smile so? He did not deserve her, that was certain enough. She had told him as much and he had laughed and quite agreed with her, but said it should never stop him trying. Still, she was back in England now, safe from his nonsense, and with a murder investigation going on all around her to prevent her thoughts from straying
too
much, at least.

Who had killed Tom Tipping? Secretly, although she would never have admitted it aloud, she wanted Norman Tipping to have done it alone and without assistance—for of course, Kathie could not possibly be involved in any way, Angela was quite certain of that. But could Norman have done it without Kathie’s involvement? He had the motive, if what Andrew Norris had said was true, and he had been in the area at the time. Supposing the gunshot was a red herring, and that the murder had been committed by Norman earlier: why, then, had he walked along Dead Man’s Path afterwards and drawn attention to himself? And was there any way in which Kathie might have walked with him without seeing Tom Tipping’s body lying there? Had Norman hidden the body, perhaps, for some reason of his own? No, she recalled, of course not, for Daniel Tyler had found it lying there quite in the open. Might Norman have somehow distracted Kathie’s attention away from the body as they passed it? Angela shook her head. No—that was a ridiculous idea, and supposed that Kathie was not only half-blind but also an idiot.

What if the gunshot
was
the sound of the murder, then? In that case they were back where they started, and anybody might have done it. Angela could not help wondering about Margaret Tipping and her cold, unemotional demeanour. Had her alibi been checked? Angela supposed it must have. She tried to think back to the fête, but it had been such a day of confusion that she feared her memory could not be relied upon. She had certainly seen Margaret on the cake stall earlier in the day, but as to the time of the murder (when was it? About a quarter to two, she seemed to remember)—why, she could not say what had been happening, for then she had been occupied with trying to sell everything on her bric-à-brac stall.

She wandered through the garden and under the pergola, and as she did so her thoughts were driven back to the other day, when they had watched through the window as Freddy and Corky sauntered across the lawn without so much as a by your leave. How offended Elisabeth had been! Poor Elisabeth; it must be such a bore to be so stiff in all things. It was a great tragedy to be born without a sense of humour, thought Angela. She frowned. An idea had come fleetingly into her head, but had then disappeared. What was it? Was it something about Italy (in which case it could be safely disregarded), or was it about the murder? Angela was almost certain it was the latter. She retraced her thoughts as far as she could, but was unable to pin the idea down, and eventually decided that the best thing would be to stop worrying about it. No doubt it would come back soon enough if it was important.

She had drifted out of the flower garden as she reflected, and was now wandering through the shrubbery, out of sight of the house. Here it was pleasant and shady, for it was rather a hot afternoon, and she was tempted to remain a while. She paused to admire a particularly large and luxuriant japonica, and was just starting to think that perhaps she had been out long enough, and that she ought to go back in and make more of an effort with Elisabeth, when she suddenly heard a noise that sounded like ‘Psst!’

She looked about her, but saw nothing. She must have imagined it. She was about to move on when she heard it again: ‘Psst!’

‘Odd,’ thought Angela. She went towards where she thought the sound had come from, rounded an enormous rhododendron and there, in a sheltered nook, discovered Freddy Pilkington-Soames and—to her astonishment—Mrs. Randall, sitting on a wrought-iron bench and wearing identical looks of mischief. Each held a drinking-glass filled with something, and between them on the bench were a little silver flask and a bottle of some dark liquid.

‘Hallo,’ said Angela, somewhat taken aback. ‘What’s all this?’

‘We’re having a little celebration,’ said Freddy.

‘Oh?’ said Angela. ‘What are you celebrating?’

Freddy looked at Mrs. Randall.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘What
are
we celebrating?’

His voice was slightly slurred.

‘I have no idea,’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something.’

She cackled and gave a hiccup.

‘Well then, we’re probably celebrating the joy of life and the beauty of the day,’ said Freddy.

‘That ought to do it,’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘It is a very fine afternoon, you must admit. The sunshine is simply glorious.’

Angela might have pointed out that they were sitting in the shadiest part of the garden and could hardly even see the sky, let alone the sun, but she sensed that logical debate was not the order of the day, and so merely agreed that the weather was indeed splendid.

‘But since you’re here, let’s have a toast!’ said Freddy, as though struck by a sudden idea. ‘I should like to propose a toast to the divine Mrs. M. May the light of your detectoring eye never grow dim.’

He held up his glass and took a drink.

‘What about me?’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘You ought to toast me. I am the oldest lady here.’

Angela noticed that she had stuck her lorgnette in her hat, where it bobbed about merrily like a large, pearl butterfly.

‘But we’ve already toasted you,’ said Freddy. ‘Four times at the last count. Or was it five?’

‘Freddy,’ said Angela reproachfully. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? What is Elisabeth going to say when she finds out you’ve been plying her mother with drink?’

‘What do you mean
I
have been plying
her
with drink?’ said Freddy, drawing himself up indignantly. ‘Tell her, Mrs. R: whose idea was it?’

‘Mine,’ admitted Mrs. Randall, hanging her head sorrowfully. A wicked look came across her face and she cackled again. ‘Although if you were any sort of gentleman you’d take the blame,’ she said.

‘Alas! I am of the younger generation, and I fear this kind of etiquette has been sadly lacking in my upbringing,’ said Freddy. ‘Humphrey was right: it’s young men like me—or do I mean young men such as I?—who have plunged the country into the disarray in which it presently finds itself.’

‘But it’s three o’clock,’ said Angela. ‘It’s far too early for this sort of thing.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘Now, are you going to stand there gaping like a fish or are you going to come and join us? Do have a drink. I’ve been wanting to have a nice, cosy chat with you for simply days, but Elisabeth would never let me.’

Freddy had been rummaging in his pocket and now produced another glass, which he wiped clean with great ceremony.

‘Courtesy of the Red Lion,’ he announced. ‘It’s not exactly Baccarat, but it possesses the requisite concavity and thus serves our purpose admirably for the present.’

Angela sat down with some trepidation, and Freddy poured her a large measure each from the flask and the bottle. She took a sip and coughed.