The Problem at Two Tithes (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7) (9 page)

‘Oh, I shouldn’t bother,’ said Freddy. ‘The gesture would be quite lost on him. I say,’ he went on more cheerfully, ‘I haven’t seen you in simply ages, have I? You’re looking very well. Isn’t that a sun-tan? Have you been abroad?’

‘Yes, to Italy,’ she said, and glanced down involuntarily at a rather pretty bracelet which she wore on her wrist. It was made of silver and inlaid with coloured glass in varying shades of green.

He saw it and said, ‘And I see you bought yourself a new trinket while you were there. Murano glass, I should say—from which I deduce you have been to Venice.’

‘Yes,’ said Angela shortly, pushing the bracelet up her sleeve and out of sight.

‘Aren’t you impressed by my deductive powers?’ said Freddy. ‘Did you like the place?’

‘Yes, thank you, it was very nice,’ said Angela. She was keen to steer the conversation away from Venice, and so she said, ‘Where are you staying while you’re here?’

‘At the Red Lion,’ he said. ‘It’s not exactly the Ritz, but it was the only place I could find. I say, I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting an invitation to stay at your house, is there?’

Angela was just about to say that she doubted it, when she caught sight of Elisabeth and Mrs. Randall walking up the little hill towards them.

‘There you are,’ said Elisabeth as they drew near. ‘I wondered where you’d got to. Mother and I are just taking a little walk before lunch. It’s a pity you disappeared, as I have a lot to do today and I did think you might have come out with her instead.’

‘Freddy, this is my sister-in-law, Lady Cardew, and her mother, Mrs. Randall,’ said Angela. ‘This is Mr. Pilkington-Soames, Elisabeth. He’s a reporter and the son of an old friend of mine.’

‘Oh,’ said Elisabeth, regarding Freddy down her nose. ‘I suppose you’re here about this dreadful murder business. Such a pity that people feel the need to read about goings-on of this sort. I suppose they must find it rather exciting, although I can’t say I think it altogether in the best of taste.’

‘Oh, I agree with you entirely,’ said Freddy, who had sized up Elisabeth with a glance and judged it better to be respectful. ‘Still, I’m afraid it must be reported. The public have the right to see the police at work and to know that something is being done. Otherwise they might come to believe that thieves and murderers can get away with anything they want, and that would never do.’

‘I suppose you are right,’ said Elisabeth with a sigh.

Mrs. Randall was observing Freddy through her lorgnette.

‘Which newspaper do you work for, young man?’ she said. ‘The
Times
, I suppose?’

‘The
Clarion
,’ said Freddy, and had the grace to blush.

‘Oh!’ said Elisabeth haughtily. ‘One of
those
papers. I’m afraid we don’t—’

‘The
Clarion
!’ said Mrs. Randall with great interest. ‘I don’t take it myself, of course, but my cook does, and she lets me read it after she’s finished with it. It’s
most
interesting.’

‘Come, Mother,’ said Elisabeth in alarm. ‘We had better be going.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said Mrs. Randall. ‘When I see you next you shall tell me all about it,’ she said to Freddy.

‘It will be my pleasure,’ said Freddy with a little bow.

‘Hmp!’ said Mrs. Randall, and was preparing to follow her daughter when a thought struck her and she turned to Angela and looked her up and down. ‘Don’t you think you’re a little too old for him?’ she said, and went off.

Freddy saw Angela glaring at him and coughed to hide his smirk. ‘So that is the wife of brother Humphrey, is it?’ he said. ‘I should rather imagine they deserve one another.’

‘They are a very respectable couple and do many good works,’ said Angela carefully.

‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re making the best of it. But never mind all that. Tell me what you know about this murder. Do you suppose the good people of Banford Green laid it on especially for you, knowing you were coming?’

‘I do hope not,’ said Angela. ‘As a matter of fact, everyone rather thought it was a spur of the moment thing until the main suspect turned out to have an alibi.’

‘Ah, yes, Andrew Norris,’ said Freddy. ‘I should like to speak to him—should have done it earlier, in fact, except that I understand he thinks nothing of waving his shotgun at anyone who happens to interrupt his after-dinner pipe or accidentally tread on his corns.’

‘You understand correctly,’ said Angela. ‘I should try not to offend him if I were you.’

‘Perhaps I’ll send Corky to him, then, and kill two birds with one stone, so to speak,’ said Freddy. ‘Mr. Norris could work off his irritability and do society a favour at the same time. I’m certain that not a jury in the land would convict me.’

‘Do I hear you taking my name in vain, Freddy?’ said a voice, and they turned to find Mr. Beckwith himself in his regrettable jacket approaching at a most complacent saunter. He made a bee-line for Angela, gave her a ridiculous bow and a leer and said, ‘Caulfield Beckwith at your service, madam.’

‘Angela Marchmont,’ said Mrs. Marchmont, eyeing him with some reserve.

‘Ah, the famous Mrs. Marchmont!’ cried Corky Beckwith sentimentally. ‘Fair of face and unbending of purpose, the scourge of scoundrels and murderers everywhere. Why, I’ll wager that every criminal quakes in his boots whenever he reads your name, and dreads the day when you will point the finger at him and intone, “That is the man, inspector; arrest him!” Meanwhile, Scotland Yard talks of you in hushed tones and hangs upon your every word, even as the society pages gush and chatter in excitement when you single-handedly establish orchid-mauve as the
only
colour to be seen in this season. Never before have such beauty and such fearsomeness been united in one slight frame. My lady, I lay myself at your feet, your devoted slave.’

He gestured magnificently at the ground before him.

‘Do put a sock in it, Corky,’ said Freddy.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Angela. ‘I was rather enjoying it.’

‘I hope my young friend here hasn’t been bothering you
too
much,’ said Corky. ‘He’s rather inexperienced in the ways of the world, I’m afraid, and hasn’t quite mastered the art of—well, anything at all, to be perfectly honest. No matter, though, my lad,’ he went on to Freddy. ‘Give it a few more years and a few knocks here and there, and perhaps you’ll be a
real
reporter one day. Remind me to lend you that old grammar of mine.’

‘What do you want?’ said Freddy, ignoring these aspersions. ‘Can’t a man have a private conversation without you butting in all over the place?’

‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ said Corky. ‘I just came up here for a cigarette and to enjoy the view. Do carry on.’

‘He always does this when he thinks I’m going to beat him to a story,’ explained Freddy. ‘He can’t just go and find his own ideas, you see; he has to steal mine.’

‘I resent that remark,’ said Corky, wholly unperturbed. ‘To my knowledge you have never yet come close to beating me to a story.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Freddy. ‘You know you’re still smarting after I got the scoop on the Dollis Hill murders.’

‘You may have got the scoop, but I got a far better piece out of it,’ said Corky, looking slightly nettled for the first time.

‘Only because you made it up,’ said Freddy.

‘You wound me, sir,’ said Corky with dignity. He was about to go on when he caught sight of Angela, who was showing signs of getting up and leaving them to it. ‘I beg your pardon, madam,’ he said. ‘We shall save our little professional disagreement for later. Please don’t go.’

‘I don’t wish to interrupt your shop,’ said Angela.

‘Not at all,’ said Corky. ‘It was terribly rude, and I apologize on behalf of both of us, since Freddy hasn’t the wit to do it himself.’

Freddy scowled but said nothing, and the incorrigible Corky went on:

‘Still, while I’m here, I don’t suppose it can hurt to ask you whether there is anything you’d like to say on the subject of this shotgun murder, Mrs. Marchmont? I mean to say, since you are held in such high regard by the police, our readers would be tremendously excited to hear your opinion of the affair.’

‘But I don’t know any more about it than you do,’ said Angela in surprise.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Corky. ‘Just say anything you like and I’ll write it up.’

‘I’d far rather you didn’t,’ said Angela.

But in his head Corky was already writing a story in which Mrs. Marchmont, resplendent in pale-blue organdie, vowed magnificently to bring to justice the man who had so cruelly deprived Thomas Tipping of his existence, leaving his wife a widow and his son an orphan.

‘Not to worry,’ he said vaguely, then took his leave politely and sauntered off.

‘It’s not like him to go without a fight,’ said Freddy. ‘I’d better go and find out what he’s up to. Don’t solve the case without me,’ he said as he ran off.

Angela shook her head and wondered what nonsense would appear about her in the newspapers that evening. Whatever it was, she thanked her stars that her brother and sister-in-law did not read the
Herald
.

On Tuesday morning an inquest was opened and immediately adjourned, since the police wanted to collect more evidence, much to the disappointment of the gaggle of locals who had turned up hoping for some excitement. That left Inspector Jameson and Sergeant Primm free to continue their investigation. Their first port of call was the Red Lion Inn, a pleasant-looking establishment which served as the village’s main hotel and public house. They entered and found a wispy-looking woman sweeping the floor of the public bar. She gave them one glance, then went through a door and shouted, ‘Bob!’

There was the sound of thumping, and after a few moments the head and shoulders of the landlord could be seen emerging from the trapdoor which led to the cellar. He was a tall, well-built man, and he had to duck his head in order to get through the door into the tap-room.

‘Morning, Bert,’ he said, nodding cheerfully at Primm. ‘And this’ll be the inspector I’ve been hearing about, I don’t doubt.’

Jameson introduced himself and the landlord introduced himself in turn as Bob Sanderson.

‘Have you come to ask me about old Norris again?’ he said. ‘I’d like to tell you different, but my story hasn’t changed. I can’t make things be what they aren’t, however much I’d like to.’

‘That’s all right, Bob,’ said Primm genially. ‘I’d just like the inspector to hear the story from your own mouth, as it were. Just in case I’ve told it wrong.’

‘Right you are, then,’ said Bob. ‘Where shall I start?’

Inspector Jameson glanced down at his notebook.

‘I understand that Mr. Norris and his man Ben Shaw came in here at about a quarter past one last Saturday lunch-time,’ he said. ‘Is that correct?’

‘As near as I can remember,’ said the landlord. ‘I don’t say I’ve got it right to the last second, but I’m a careful man and I generally take note of times. It’s a habit I’ve got into.’

‘Did they have a drink in the public bar here?’

‘No,’ said Bob. ‘They bought their drinks and said they wanted a bite to eat, and I told them things were quiet and they might as well go into the saloon where it was more comfortable, but Norris said he didn’t fancy rattling around in there and he’d rather go into the snug. It was all the same to me, so that’s where they went. A few minutes later—half past one or so, it was—I took them in some food and left them to it, and they stayed in there until they left at ten past two.’

‘Are you quite certain of that?’ said Jameson. ‘Didn’t they buy any more drinks?’

‘Yes,’ said Bob, ‘Twice. Once a few minutes after I took them their food—let’s say at twenty to two—and again at two o’clock or thereabouts.’

‘Who bought them? And did he come in here to get them?’

‘It was Norris, both times,’ said Bob. ‘And there was no need for him to come in here.’ He indicated the little window through which drinks were served to patrons occupying the snug. ‘He just called through from there.’

‘And you didn’t see either him or Ben Shaw at any other time until they left the place?’ said Jameson.

‘No,’ said Bob. ‘But like I told Bert here, they couldn’t have got out without my seeing them, for I was here in the tap-room the whole time, as I had customers to serve. They’re regulars and they like their beer and don’t like having to wait for it, so that’s where I was. As you can see, inspector,’ he went on, ‘the door to the snug is round
there
, and the door to the street is just
there
, and so if anyone wanted to leave they’d have had to come round by the bar, and I’d have seen them. And even if my back had been turned and I’d missed him, my regulars were sitting over there and they’d have seen him, but they didn’t. And quite apart from everything else, neither of them was carrying a shotgun. If they had been I shouldn’t have allowed them in.’

‘Thank you. That seems clear enough,’ said Jameson. He glanced towards the door of the snug. ‘Might we have a look in there?’ he said.

‘’Course you can,’ replied the obliging Bob.

Jameson and Primm went into the snug and looked about them, and Jameson went and peered over the little bar back into the public room, where Bob Sanderson was now wiping a tap in desultory fashion.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘You can’t see into the snug from the tap-room unless you’re standing right behind the bar, which means the landlord couldn’t have glimpsed them by chance from anywhere except this spot.’

‘That’s right enough,’ agreed the sergeant.

‘Yes,’ said Jameson. ‘I was just thinking about the times. So, then, we have an interval of perhaps twenty minutes—that is, between twenty to two and two o’clock—in which nobody saw Norris.’

‘Except Ben Shaw,’ said Primm.

‘Yes,’ said Jameson. He looked around again and opened a door which led to a little corridor and a modern lavatory which looked to be of recent installation. ‘Nothing there,’ he said, and turned to another door. ‘Now, where does this one go?’

‘Only into the back yard,’ said Primm.

Jameson opened it and stepped outside. As the sergeant had said, there was nothing here but a little yard enclosed by a brick wall a little less than six feet high. It was difficult to walk around it, being as it was full of piles of old rags, empty kegs, wooden crates, milk churns and what looked like the engine of a motor-car. Jameson picked his way gingerly across to the opposite wall. There was an old milking-stool there, and he stood on it and peered over the top. On the other side he could see a row of dilapidated-looking houses, each with its own tiny yard, most of which were strung across with lines of washing. Over the rooftops he could just see the church spire. As he looked at the house which backed directly onto the Red Lion, three or four small children ran out of it and into the yard. They were followed by a young woman carrying a basket of washing, who looked up at him suspiciously. He apologized hurriedly and jumped down. These, then, must be the houses he had seen yesterday which stood across the lane from the church.