Unhappy Returns

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  Toye, who had listened impassively, nodded his assent.

  ‘He’s right out as far as Ridd goes, whatever he was up to. If he didn’t leave the wholesale place until just on half past one, he couldn’t possibly have made Ambercombe in time to kill her and get back to Pyrford by a quarter to three on that road going north of the Whitehallows. It’s a long way round.’

  Pollard sat absently drumming on the table with the fingers of his right hand.

  ‘Let’s go and eat,’ he said suddenly. ‘It’s a long time since that bar snack.’

  The dining room of their hotel produced an unexpectedly good meal. Pollard worked through it rather abstractedly, while Toye perused the Westbridge Evening News. Over Stilton and water biscuits Pollard asked if there were anything decent on the box.

  ‘There’s a Western,’ Toye admitted guardedly. ‘Black Gulch Deadline. Dod Buffelsfontein and Dimity Rose.’

  Pollard grinned.

  ‘It’s all yours. Go and give what passes for your brain a break. I feel like doing a Garbo.’

  The rapport existing between them was such that Toye accepted the proposed programme without comment beyond remarking that the TV room was on the first floor. He gulped down his coffee and departed. Pollard sat on at their table for a few moments appreciatively watching his decorous progress to the door. Then he gathered up the case file and the newspaper, and went to ring Jane before settling down to some hard thinking. Later, feeling relaxed as a result of a brief escape into his personal world, he located a quiet corner in the less frequented of the hotel’s two lounges, ordered more coffee, and installed himself in a comfortable chair.

  The coffee arrived and was hot and good. He sat sipping it, letting his thoughts range freely over the events of the past two days. Presently he began to co-ordinate them. The one indisputable basic fact was that Ethel Ridd’s murder had been premeditated, and had taken place in Ambercombe vicarage in the afternoon or early evening of Wednesday 19 November.

  In an odd way the day and the hour seemed to reverberate in his mind. If there had been premeditation on the killer’s part, why did he choose that particular day? Was it because it had been known well in advance that an unusual number of people would be absent from Ambercombe and Pyrford because of the Consistory Court hearing in Marchester? This would cut both ways, though. If he was a local man — and Ethel Ridd’s fantastically restricted social contacts and his knowledge of her habits made this almost certain — the fact that he was around, and not in Marchester himself, was bound to come to the knowledge of the police. From the standpoint of an alibi it seemed a risky day to choose. The alternative explanation could only be that he had no choice: that something had happened earlier in the day making it imperative for him to murder Ethel Ridd at once. And in default of a shred of evidence in another direction, this pointed to her outburst in court about the allegedly missing chalice, and so to the theory that the thing really did exist, and that the murderer had found this out and stolen it, on or after the day of Barnabas Viney’s death. And that he could have been involved in the latter…

  One step at a time, Pollard thought. If only we could get definite proof that there really was a chalice. He opened the file and turned once more to the report of the events in the Consistory Court. What exactly had Ethel Ridd said? ‘’Tisn’t the ordinary one I’m talking about. It’s the little one Father Viney’d use in and out for Saints’ days. It had jewels stuck in it.’

  He read her words several times before being suddenly struck by the phrase ‘in and out’. Wasn’t this rather odd? Wouldn’t old Viney, with his obsession with Ambercombe’s link with Tadenham Abbey, have used a medieval chalice that he’d discovered on every suitable occasion? Not on Sundays or for any service at which a local congregation might turn up and discover his secret, but as Ethel Ridd had said in evidence, nobody from the village came to church on weekdays, barring herself. So why did the old man — according to her — only use this particular chalice ‘in and out’?

  Finding no answer to this question Pollard began to wonder where Barnabas Viney might have hidden away a chalice. Ethel Ridd couldn’t have known, or she would have told the court where it had been kept as additional confirmation of her story. The more Pollard thought about this point, the more curious he found it. A woman who did the housework or generally kept the household ticking over always seemed to know where everything was. At any rate Jane’s omniscience in this sphere was a joke in his own home, and his mother had been just the same. Of course Ridd didn’t seem to have been awfully bright, and Viney was obviously a cautious old chap. Archdeacon Lacy had said that Ambercombe’s Georgian plate wasn’t all that valuable, but it had been kept in the bank, and had always been taken back there after being got out for festivals…

  Pollard made an abrupt movement, almost knocking over the coffee tray in his excitement. If there was a chalice, this is what the old boy did with it, he thought. I swear it ties up. The Gillard woman said Viney made a thing of getting the stuff out of the bank well before it was needed. She mentioned a plate box, too. He’d have kept everything locked up in that cupboard at the back of the church for the short periods involved, but was too security-minded to risk a real treasure there permanently.

  His mind began to race ahead but was brought up short by a theological query. Were there Saints’ days close to Christmas and Easter and Ambercombe’s Patronal festival on 24 June? The Feast of Stephen, of course, on Boxing Day, when old Wenceslas looked out…

  The next moment he was crossing the lounge en route for the television room. This was the sort of thing a church man like Toye would know. He opened the door cautiously and peered in. Clearly the deadline had arrived in Black Gulch. Dimity Rose in an immaculate late Victorian print frock, and without a single braided flaxen curl out of place, was lashed to a tree trunk in the direct line of fire between a gang of desperadoes and an agonised Dod Buffelsfontein, all of whose supporters had already been picked off. However, a posse of unmistakable Sheriff’s men was just entering the mouth of the Gulch with the obvious intention of assailing the gang from the rear…

  Regardless of protests from indignant viewers, Pollard made his way over to Toye in the front row.

  ‘Come on out of it,’ he hissed into his ear.

  Back in the lounge, a surprised Toye produced the required information about Saints’ days without hesitation.

  ‘There’s St Thomas the Apostle on December the twenty-first,’ he said. ‘St Stephen, December the twenty-sixth; St John the Evangelist, December the twenty-seventh; and Holy Innocents, December the twenty-eighth. Then some people would call January the first —’

  ‘That’ll do for Christmas,’ Pollard cut in. ‘What about Easter?’

  ‘Well, there you’ve got a moveable feast, of course. The Annunciation’s March the twenty-fifth, and at the other end St Mark is April the twenty-fifth, and St Philip and St James, May the first. Either side of St John the Baptist, there’s Barnabas on June the eleventh, and St Peter on June the twenty-ninth.’

  Pollard stared at him.

  ‘My God, you know your stuff! Why didn’t you go into the Church?’

  Toye admitted coyly that he had given it serious thought, but the long training had put him off.

  ‘I might have a bash at becoming a Lay Reader when I retire,’ he added. ‘What’s all this in aid of, by the way?’

  Pollard told him. For a full minute the pair sat in silence.

  ‘Aren’t plate boxes often lined with velvet or whatever?’ Pollard asked suddenly.

  ‘That’s right,’ Toye replied. ‘If something extra had been fitted in, there could be marks. The forensic chaps might be able to get on to it.’

  ‘The bank’ll dig its toes in about letting us have the thing.’

  Toye suggested getting an authorisation from Mr Hoyle.

  ‘Good idea. We can catch him after the funeral tomorrow morning: it’s too late to do anything about it tonight, and the poor chap’s all steamed up, anyway. We�
�ll come back to Westbridge and go to the bank after we’ve seen Sandford.’

  ‘Nice handy base, that chap’s cottage, for spotting anything valuable in the Church, and for lifting it, come to that,’ Toye commented.

  ‘My own thoughts entirely,’ Pollard replied. ‘Let’s pack it in, shall we?’

  Robert Hoyle in surplice and stole stood at the gate of Ambercombe churchyard to receive Ethel Ridd’s coffin. The hearse moved off through a gap in the crowd of onlookers cleared by the police. When it had passed people closed in again, forming a solid encircling wall of humanity. Under a flat grey sky the air was perfectly still and the crowd silent, only an occasional cough or shuffle of feet indicating its presence. Intermittently an autumn leaf fluttered to the ground by a devious route. Robert Hoyle’s voice, unemotionally confident, dominated the gathering…

  ‘Neither death, nor life … nor things present, nor things to come … nor any other creature —’ he paused almost imperceptibly — ‘shall be able to separate us from the love of God…’

  Pollard, standing with Toye in the place reserved for them by Inspector Frost beyond the porch, watched the pathetically small cortege advance. Because of the tiny capacity of the church he had chosen to observe the proceedings in the churchyard. Robert Hoyle led the way inside, followed by the coffin on a wheeled bier propelled by the undertaker’s men. It was heaped with wreaths and simple bunches of garden flowers. Whatever the villagers’ attitude to Ethel Ridd had been during her lifetime, they were now expressing their solidarity with her in her death. Probably mixed motives, some of them unconscious, Pollard thought. A community’s instinctive hostility against the killer of one of their number, a propitiatory gesture occasioned by a sense of guilt, and a drawing together in the face of the ultimate invincible enemy. In the absence of any kindred of the dead woman, Margaret Gillard and a man who was presumably her husband followed the coffin as chief mourners. Pollard studied Matthew Gillard with interest. A sturdy figure, with an obstinate sensible face tanned by sun and wind, he looked straight ahead with the deadpan expression of a man carrying out an unavoidable duty under conditions of intolerable publicity.

  During the interval which followed Pollard ran his eye over the crowd. He identified the Aldridges, and got the impression that George, at least, was carefully avoiding his glance. In general people’s faces were expressionless as they stood close together, muffled up against the cold. At intervals they moved their feet in the chilling damp grass. Press and television photographers in black jackets and hung about with their gear moved about restlessly, irrelevant as insects. Pollard, beginning to feel cold himself, hunched his shoulders and shifted his weight from one foot to another as he looked around. A few yards away a spider’s web linked one arm of the granite cross over Barnabas Viney’s grave with its shaft, and was spangled with bright drops of moisture. Some of the graves were carefully tended and defiantly bright with the rich glowing colours of dahlias and chrysanthemums. Others were merely indicated by stunted and heeling headstones, pointers to wholly forgotten generations. A stark mound of damp earth and an open trench lined with greenery awaited the mortal remains of Ethel Ridd.

  At long last the massive oak door of the church opened protestingly, and a ripple of heightened awareness passed over the waiting crowd.

  The committal was quickly over. Margaret Gillard with compressed lips and a resolute expression scattered earth on the lowered coffin. Robert Hoyle pronounced the final grace, and out of the corner of his eye Pollard saw Inspector Frost’s attention automatically switch over to the immediate problem of traffic dispersal.

  For a time Robert Hoyle stood talking with groups of his parishioners. When he finally went back into the church Pollard and Toye followed. They found him extricating himself from his surplice, and listened to his wholehearted expressions of gratitude to the police for their handling of sightseers and photographers at the funeral.

  ‘I was simply dreading this morning,’ he said, taking off his stole, ‘but it all went so smoothly. I only wish your troubles were over, too. Can I do anything?’

  Pollard put his request for an authorisation to remove the Ambercombe plate box and its contents from the bank.

  ‘There’ll be proper security, of course, and I’ll give you an official receipt. I know you’ll understand that I can’t be explicit about why we want a look at it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Robert Hoyle replied. ‘I’ll let you have one right away if you can come down to the Rectory.’

  Pollard explained that they had a date with Mr Sandford of Quarry Cottages, and it was arranged that they should pick up the authorisation later that morning. As they went down the churchyard path and out into the road, little knots of people still lingering and chatting eyed them curiously. They turned left, and then left again into the lane leading to the vicarage gate and Quarry Cottages. In answer to their knock the door of number 3 was opened by a man in an old coat over pyjamas. He was unshaven, with unkempt dark hair and bright blue eyes.

  ‘Bill Sandford,’ he stated briefly. ‘The fuzz, I take it?’

  Pollard introduced himself and Toye, and held out his official card.

  ‘Not to worry.’ Bill Sandford waved it away airily. ‘It’s so seldom that we get bogus coppers round here that I’ll chance it. Come inside if you want to see me, and make yourselves at home. Excuse my dishabille, won’t you? I don’t go to work on Thursdays.’

  Pollard recognised the compulsive coat trailing mentioned by Robert Hoyle, this time in regard to non-attendance at Ethel Ridd’s funeral. Moreover there was an almost exaggerated contrast between Bill Sandford’s personal appearance and the orderly and comfortable living room of the cottage. As Pollard sat down he registered clean whitewashed walls with original watercolours and interesting brass rubbings. There were rugs on the stone floor, well-filled bookcases and a table in the window with the tools of the calligrapher’s trade neatly set out. A half-finished manuscript was fastened to a drawing board propped at an angle of about sixty degrees. It linked up in Pollard’s mind with the framed list of the vicars of Ambercombe that he had noticed in the church. He sat down by the fire, facing Bill Sandford who dropped into a chair on the other side of the hearth.

  ‘You knew the late Mr Viney fairly well, didn’t you, Mr Sandford?’ he opened.

  Bill Sandford flung himself back, crossing his legs and surveying Pollard quizzically, who instantly sensed confidence behind the half-mocking stare… This chap didn’t kill Ridd, he thought instantly, but he’s up to the neck in something phoney. Hell! Not another Aldridge situation, for heaven’s sake…

  ‘I’ve no idea what degree of intimacy you imply by “fairly well”,’ Bill Sandford was countering.

  ‘Casual visiting terms?’ Pollard suggested, deciding to give the impression of allowing himself to be led down a tortuous garden path.

  ‘If you like. I blew in now and again. I’m not a church goer.’

  ‘Did he ever mention the chalice Miss Ridd claimed that he sometimes used?’

  Bill Sandford assumed an expression of mock astonishment.

  ‘Don’t tell me that an eminent CID Super has fallen for poor old Ridd’s yarn!’

  ‘I’ve no intention of telling you anything, Mr Sandford. I’m here to ask questions, not to give information.’

  ‘The answer,’ Bill Sandford replied with a bow, ‘is in the negative.’

  ‘Did Miss Ridd herself ever mention this chalice to you?’

  This time there was a shout of laughter.

  ‘God, no! I was beyond the pale with our Ethel. An unbeliever, a pub crawler, and a chap given to suggestive overnight absences. Not a bloke you’d discuss the sacred vessels with. The first I ever heard of the things was when she lobbed her blockbuster at the Chancellor in court.’

  ‘Presumably, though, you were not beyond the pale with Mr Viney,’ Pollard observed.

  ‘True. Simply, I deduced, because I read history at Oxford and had heard of Bernard of Clairvaux and the Cisterci
ans. Tadenham Abbey was a Cistercian foundation, and Ambercombe church one of its outposts. They owned all the land round here till Henry VIII weighed in. Of course, you’ve heard all about Barny’s obsession?’

  ‘Could he be considered mentally normal?’

  Bill Sandford shrugged, and sat dangling a slipper from a bare foot.

  ‘Can you? Can I? What’s your yardstick? He certainly wasn’t certifiable. His obsession with the past and the Cistercian way of life got him the reputation of being a bit nor-nor-west, but in other directions he carried on normally. There were always the basic church services, even if practically nobody turned up, and the Church Council or whatever it’s called was more or less moribund. Over the last few years he got too frail to visit people, but they could always come along and get things signed or whatever. I found him interesting, actually, provided I took his obsession as read. He read The Times from the standpoint of somebody in Mars, which was intriguing. Now and again I did an odd job for him in Westbridge after he couldn’t get his driving licence renewed. Cashing a cheque or buying a book. Things beyond the scope of our Ethel.’

  ‘How did she fit into the picture?’

  ‘She accepted the situation uncritically. Her IQ was low, and anything in the way of abstract or logical thinking was beyond her, as far as I could judge. She functioned more or less as an automaton. After the parishes were amalgamated she evolved another routine of domestic chores and cleaning the church, and so on. Haven’t I read somewhere that if you cut off a hen’s head it still goes on running in circles?’

  Pollard declined the gambit.

  ‘You were her next door neighbour. To your personal knowledge was she ever visited by a stranger?’

  ‘Never. Her social life was virtually nil, apart from an occasional visit from a local do-gooder. She refused to let either of the Hoyles into the cottage. In her eyes he was a usurper.’

  While keeping the conversation going Pollard was coming to a decision on tactics. By now he was convinced that Bill Sandford had a genuine alibi for the time of Ethel Ridd’s murder, and that he was keenly looking forward to producing it out of a hat at the end of a lengthy and time-consuming period of questioning. He was equally sure in his own mind, however, that beneath the confidence of being able to blow a murder charge sky-high there was wariness towards the police on some other — and possibly related — issue. He decided to chance his hand.