by Alex Walters
They followed the professor through into an immaculately furnished reception room. Winterman glanced around. Parlour would hardly do it justice. It was definitely a drawing room. Most of the furniture looked, to Winterman's inexpert eye, antique and probably valuable. But there was something unnatural about the room, as if it were furnished for effect rather than comfort. The cliché would be that it lacked a woman's touch. That might well have been the case – there was nothing overtly feminine visible, and the hunting prints that lined the walls had a masculine air – but it wasn't the whole truth. This wasn't a room for living in.
Callaghan gestured for them to take a seat. Winterman found himself perched awkwardly on the edge of the pristine sofa, aware of the contrast with his battered raincoat. Hoxton had no such scruples, and lounged back comfortably, his face unreadable.
'You're an academic?' Winterman said.
'Microbiology,' Callaghan snapped. 'Is this relevant?'
'Just making conversation, sir.'
'You might have all day, Inspector. I don't. Please get to the point.'
Winterman's smile broadened. The professor had clearly taken note of the rank shown on his warrant card. Perhaps there would be another call to the chief constable after their departure. 'You appreciate, sir, that we are conducting a murder enquiry?'
'I do, not being completely in my dotage. But I fail to see why you are conducting it in my house.'
'How well did you know Reverend Fisher?'
Winterman fancied that something flickered momentarily in Callaghan's eyes, but his expression remained blank.
'Not particularly well. I had some dealings with him on church matters from time to time.'
'Dealings?'
Callaghan lowered himself into an armchair and gazed at them with barely disguised impatience. 'Fisher and I didn't see eye to eye.'
'Can I ask in what respects?'
'I'm sure you know that he drank. And that his behaviour could be erratic. I was delegated to express the concerns of a number of parishioners. We had a number of meetings.'
Winterman had no difficulty in imagining the pomposity with which Callaghan would have undertaken this role. 'And did he accept your concerns?'
'What do you think, Inspector? But I felt we should give him the opportunity to address the issues before we elevated our concerns to a higher authority.'
For a moment, Winterman wondered whether Callaghan had perhaps sought an audience with God. 'And you did that? Took your concerns to a higher authority?'
'Something had to be done. The congregation was shrinking by the week. So I spoke to the bishop.'
'I see. How did Reverend Fisher take that?'
'I've no idea. But I believe the bishop engineered Fisher's retirement at the earliest opportunity. So we achieved our aim.'
'Those were your only dealings with Reverend Fisher?'
There was an almost imperceptible hesitation. 'I take it you've been made aware of the gossip, Inspector. I'd advise you to disregard it.'
Winterman allowed himself the luxury of a similar pause, noting that, for the first time, Callaghan was not entirely at ease. 'I'm aware Reverend Fisher's wife left him, sir. And that she and her daughter lived here for a period.'
'I'm sure the grapevine has implied more than that. I'm not a fool. I know what has been said. None of it, of course, has any substance. Fisher's wife left him because he drank and he beat her. I believe strongly in the sanctity of marriage, but felt, reluctantly, that she had taken the only course open to her. She had nowhere to go, and I had no option but to offer her shelter. I knew it would provoke gossip, but I've long since ceased to concern myself about that.' He glared defiantly at Winterman, as if challenging him to question this account.
'I understand she eventually tried to return to Reverend Fisher.'
'Apparently, it's not so unusual, Inspector. Men like Fisher can exert, if you'll forgive me, an unholy influence over the impressionable. She persuaded herself it was the right thing to do. I did my utmost to dissuade her, but there was nothing I could do. The result was a tragedy.'
'You had no other contacts with Fisher?'
'Other than those I've described, no. Is that all, Inspector?'
There was a finality to the closing words that suggested Callaghan was about to terminate the interview. 'Thank you, sir. That's extremely helpful. Do you know if Reverend Fisher had any other, closer acquaintances? Is there anyone else we should be speaking to?'
'I'm not aware of any. Even as our clergyman, he tried to have as little contact with his parishioners as possible. In the last few years the sentiment was mutual. By the end, Fisher cut a very lonely figure. He had no visitors I'm aware of.'
'Other than your son?' Winterman said.
'I'm not aware that my son was in the habit of visiting Fisher.'
'Yet he did so on the night that Fisher died.'
'You've spoken to my son. He's told you exactly what happened.'
'He gave us his account, yes, sir. I'm assuming he gave you the same account.' Winterman left his words hanging in the air, an implied question.
'He was caught by the snow. He went to Fisher's to seek shelter.'
'A prudent move, I'm sure. Particularly given his state of inebriation.'
'You sound very moralistic, Inspector. Do you disapprove of drinking?'
'I have no strong opinion, sir. I've been known to take the occasional glass of beer myself. I'm more concerned with confirming the sequence of events that evening. Were you not surprised or worried when your son failed to return home?'
'I'm long past being surprised by anything my son might do. I was tired and went to bed relatively early. I rarely stay up to await William in any case. It was the next morning before I realised he had not returned. Even then, I simply assumed that he had stayed overnight with one of his acquaintances. It would not have been the first time.'
'To the best of your knowledge, your son had no prior contact with Fisher?'
'To the best of my knowledge,' the professor concurred. 'I can see no good reason why he should have.'
'Indeed, sir. Which raises the question then, of who else might have been at Fisher's house that night.'
'I think that's rather your territory. I'm afraid I can't help you.' He shifted forward in his chair, clearly intending to rise and show them off the premises.
Winterman sat back in the sofa, determined not to move until explicitly asked to do so. 'You and William live here all alone?'
'Our housekeeper lives in. But yes. I'm a widower. Will that be all?'
'I think so, sir. I hope we won't need to trouble you again.'
'I imagine that will rather depend on whether you consider my son a serious suspect for Fisher's murder.'
Winterman recognised there was little point in prolonging the discussion. Anyone who could coolly discuss his own son as a potential murder suspect was unlikely to be intimidated or cajoled into an incautious response. 'Do you think we should, sir?'
'I've really no idea. I don't see him as a murderer. I'm not sure he has the courage.'
'Courage?'
'It's not an easy thing, killing someone, Inspector. I survived the First War, so I speak with some experience.'
'No doubt, sir.' Winterman reached for his hat and coat, and nodded to Hoxton.
Callaghan escorted them to the front door, as if to ensure that they really did leave the premises. 'I think we're due for more snow. I hope it doesn't inconvenience your work too much.'
'It doesn't help,' Winterman acknowledged. He pulled his coat around him as he stepped back out into the chill air, and turned back to look at Callaghan. 'What are your thoughts on the children, sir?'
'Inspector?'
'The children's bodies? You're aware that Reverend Fisher discovered a child's body in the village?'
'Another nasty bit of business. But you said "bodies"?'
'I'm sorry. I thought you'd have heard. A second body was found, down in the village. Another girl, apparen
tly, a similar age to the first. And again well preserved, but dead for some time. Several years. As you say, nasty business. And very puzzling.'
'You haven't discovered their identities?'
'Not definitively, sir, no. You'll appreciate that I'm not in a position to say any more at the moment.'
'I imagine that, as the deaths occurred some time ago, they inevitably carry a lower priority than poor Fisher's death.'
'For the moment.' Winterman paused. 'We'll be in touch if we need to trouble you again.' He turned and made his way back towards the car, his feet crunching into the frozen drifts of snow.
Behind him he heard the echoing crunch of Hoxton's steps, and then Callaghan's voice, quieter and sounding, to Winterman's ears, a little less confident. 'Good day, Inspector, and good luck.'
Chapter 30
'"Not definitively,"' Hoxton echoed. 'What was all that about?'
'What?' Winterman sat tensely in the passenger seat. Hoxton was a noticeably less cautious driver than Marsh, and Winterman was convinced they were driving too fast. He had been expecting for the last ten minutes or so that they would hit a patch of black ice and lose control. So far though, Hoxton had managed to maintain both speed and equilibrium.
'"Not definitively". "I'm not in a position to say anything more." All that guff. sir.'
'He was lying,' Winterman said. 'He was hiding something.'
'The prof? Oh, definitely. But what?'
'No idea. But none of it quite rang true.'
'As true as a cracked pisspot,' Hoxton agreed graphically. 'You shook him with the kiddies.'
'I seemed to, didn't I.' Winterman paused, as Hoxton took a tight left bend. 'That was odd.'
'Thought you knew something,' Hoxton glanced across, apparently taking his eyes fully off the road. 'Being a clever bugger and all.'
'I'm always most clever when I haven't a clue what I'm doing. It was just a random prod. Trying to get a reaction from the chilly old sod.'
'You did that all right. Only question is what it meant.' Hoxton slowed the car momentarily and took one hand off the wheel to point through the windscreen. 'That's the place.'
Winterman peered through the murky glass. He could make out a squat grey building, stretching forbiddingly along the flat horizon. 'Not what I expected.'
'Not the ancestral pile, you mean. They were never ones to fritter money on decoration, the Hamshaws. And the family fortune isn't quite what it was, by all accounts.'
Winterman glanced at him inquisitively. 'Money troubles?'
'Wouldn't say that. Hamshaws' is old money. Landowning, farming. But it was the last two or three generations really built it up. Started taking the farming seriously as a commercial business, sullied their hands by dealing with tradesfolk. Hamshaws went from being wealthy to being extremely wealthy.'
'Now things are declining again?' They were approaching the Hamshaw residence – a grey shingled building, impressively sized, but with the air of a working farmhouse.
Hoxton pulled the car as close into the roadside as the frozen snow drifts would allow. 'Not quite clogs to clogs in three generations, but they've suffered like everyone else.
'Thought farmers usually had a good war.'
'Some did,' Hoxton agreed. 'Even some round here. Hamshaw did all right from the farming, but he made a few unwise investments. You know, wine, woman and song, and then he frittered the rest.'
'You seem to know a lot about him?'
Hoxton glanced curiously at Winterman. 'Only what everyone knows. Hamshaw knows everyone, and everyone knows Hamshaw. Everyone who's anyone. I wouldn't underestimate him. You'll think he's a pussycat – certainly compared with Callaghan – but he turns it on when he wants to. A wheeler dealer, as they say.'
Hoxton turned off the engine and squinted through the foggy windows. 'We'll have to walk the rest of the way. Don't reckon I'd fancy the Wolseley on that terrain.' He gestured towards the rutted track that led to the farm buildings.
They stepped out into the frozen air. Winterman turned up his collar and thrust his hat firmly on his hand. 'You reckon it's too cold to snow again?'
Hoxton was wrapping a thick woollen scarf around his neck. 'No. I reckon it's just bloody cold enough to snow again.'
Close up, Hamshaw's property looked even less prepossessing. It was a rambling two-storey building, dark windows peering blankly, paint peeling, rendering cracked in several places. 'Doesn't look as if he spends a lot on maintenance either.'
'It's a working building,' Hoxton said. 'Not the ancestral home. That went long ago.'
They reached what appeared to be the front entrance – a large black painted door with an ornate but tarnished brass knocker, topped by a rickety porch. 'He's expecting us?' He lifted the knocker and rapped firmly.
'Mrs Sheringham said she'd call. But it won't be a problem. Hamshaw's always keen to do his civic duty. Big supporter of the local constabulary.'
Winterman had been surprised that Callaghan had answered his own front door. He was even more surprised when the battered door in front of them was opened by a man he recognised instantly as Lord Hamshaw. Whatever had happened in the last election, Winterman thought, the class structure was as pervasive as ever. As soon as he found himself facing someone designated a Lord, the old deference kicked in. He reminded himself that Hamshaw, however much he might be old money, wasn't a real Lord. This was the first Lord Hamshaw, not the umpteenth. He'd been granted his peerage, supposedly in recognition of his loyal Government service, but probably just as a sop for the loss of his seat. Winterman had recognised him from wartime photographs – a junior minister exhorting the public to support the military effort. He had a feeling he might even have met Hamshaw once, when a cluster of MPs had passed through his office in London.
'Lord Hamshaw?' He was conscious he didn't even know how a peer of the realm should be addressed.
Hamshaw looked younger than he'd expected – younger than his wartime photographs had suggested. Perhaps that was the effect of losing power. Winterman had expected someone in late middle age, an elder statesman. The man in front of him was probably no more than forty-five. He looked fit, well built, his ruddy face suggesting time spent in the open air. He looked anything other than the stereotype of a politician.
Hamshaw regarded the two men standing in front of him. 'Inspector Winterman.' He nodded to Hoxton. 'Constable Hoxton. We've met before, I believe.'
The politician's training, Winterman thought. Remembering names, and making sure you used them. 'We're very grateful to you for sparing us a few minutes.'
'Not at all, Inspector. Though I don't know that I can really help you.' He took a step back. 'Please come in.'
They followed Hamshaw into a gloomy passageway. From somewhere there was a smell of cooking vegetables. The passage was lined with piles of unidentifiable clutter. Whatever Hamshaw's status or wealth, this house was the opposite of Callaghan's. 'In here, gentlemen.'
Hamshaw led them into a reception room even more gloomy than the entrance hall. He stepped across the room and threw back the heavy curtains from a set of French windows, allowing pale grey light to percolate through the shadows. The additional illumination did little to improve the appearance of the room. There were two over-stuffed sofas, a couple of battered occasional tables, and a set of bookshelves apparently overflowing with ancient-looking volumes.
Hamshaw gestured them to take a seat on one of the sofas. 'Can I organise you gentlemen a cup of tea?' The question sounded genuine, rather than rhetorical.
Winterman shook his head. 'Don't worry, sir. One of the perils of conducting these interviews is that we find ourselves awash with tea.'
Hamshaw smiled, his face suggesting that Winterman's response had lifted a substantial burden, and he lowered himself onto the other sofa.
'You're aware of why we're here, sir?'
Hamshaw considered for a moment. 'The lady who called me said something about Reverend Fisher. I hadn't been aware…'
'No, sir. It
's not common knowledge yet. We found his body yesterday morning.'
'Given your presence here, gentlemen, I assume there are circumstances that need to be investigated.'
'We believe so,' Winterman said. 'It appears that Reverend Fisher was murdered.'
'Good Lord.' Hamshaw's exclamation sounded far from heartfelt. 'That's a bit of a shock.'
'I'm sorry, sir. Did you know Reverend Fisher well?'
'Not really, not at a personal level. Of course we had some contact when he was the incumbent reverend. Not the easiest man to deal with, as I'm sure you've heard.'
'In what way, sir?'
Hamshaw hesitated, as though surprised by the direct question. 'In almost every way, to be frank. He was stubborn, opinionated, rude, disdainful of other people – especially his own parishioners. And I'm sure you know that he drank heavily. He could be very aggressive.'
'You had some confrontations with him?'
'Not me, not really. He tended to behave differently with me. The usual characteristics of a bully. Rude and aggressive to his inferiors, but deferential to those above.'
Winterman noted the terminology. 'He considered the parishioners his inferiors?'
'That was my impression. Not just socially – though there was something of that. Fisher came from a decent background – a good school, Oxford. He felt that he'd fallen among the hoi polloi here. '
'That's surely the lot of a clergyman?'
Hamshaw shrugged. 'I've no idea why Fisher took orders. He didn't strike me as the spiritual type. If I were cynical, I'd say it was because it gave him a platform to express his disapproval of lesser mortals.'
'It sounds as if you didn't like him very much, sir.'
'Does that make me a suspect, Inspector? If so, I think there might be dozens more people you'll need to interview.'
'Reverend Fisher wasn't popular?'
'That would be an understatement. The man had a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. Disappointed expectations perhaps. I imagine we all think we could have done better with our lives.'
'I imagine so, sir.' Winterman resisted the urge to glance around the shabby room. 'Other than his general unpopularity, can you think of any other reasons why Reverend Fisher might have been killed?'
