Murder in the Cotswolds

by Guthrie, A. B. ;

  Charleston found his own smoke had gone out. He relighted the cigar and waited.

  “To go back a bit. The body was only partly dressed. His trousers and jacket were on a chair. Nothing at all in the pockets, but a wallet lay on the floor. It contained nothing but a driver’s license and some credit cards. No bills. No silver. No money at all.”

  “Suggesting robbery?”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure. A possibility, that’s all.” Charleston studied the smoke he blew out. “How long had the man been dead?”

  “Our information—it’s an estimate—is not before midnight last night and not after two o’clock this morning. Mr. Smith was with a party of Americans. You know that. You know them, Mr. and Mrs. Walter Witt and Mr. and Mrs. Ben D. Post. They’re suspects, of course, as who isn’t, but I got nothing useful out of them. Perhaps you can.”

  “That’s just perhaps. I’ve hardly more than met them. From the little I’ve seen, I’d say Post is a difficult customer. Probably Smith’s sister, Mrs. Post, too. The Witts seem more open.”

  “Post was the most contrary. You can see their statements if you want to. Those of Mrs. Vaughn and the girl who found him are there, too.”

  “I doubt I ever saw Smith open his mouth. My wife didn’t like him. He stared at her, not innocently, it seems. Did you know that Smith and Post both once wore beards?”

  “You knew them from before, or saw them?”

  “I saw them first in Edinburgh some days ago, and the skin tones showed where the beards had been.”

  “You think that significant?”

  “It could mean they are on the dodge.”

  Perkins said, “That might not matter to our case.”

  “It may not. But I could call Washington and maybe pick up something? I’m thinking, you know, about that saying, when thieves fall out …”

  “Good idea. About Washington. Should have thought about it myself, but it’s not exactly our problem. I’ll get headquarters on it.”

  Perkins rose and paced the room, and Goodman said, “Too early for sweat now, Inspector.”

  Perkins returned to his chair and plumped his butt in it as if that act of decision might settle other matters.

  Charleston asked, “What staff members live in the inn?”

  “Only three. Mrs. Vaughn, Rose, and a night man who answers the bell if it rings. He has a cubbyhole just beyond the registration desk. Hold on, though. The chef, name of Armand, arrived just day before yesterday. He has his own room. That’s all, except a family friend who helps out at the inn when needed, but she lives at one of the cottages. She leases it.”

  “No signs of a break-in?”

  “Not a one. The door to the murder room was unlocked.” At Charleston’s hesitation, Perkins said, “Don’t be shy about questions. I might forget something.”

  “But I seem to be giving you the business.”

  “So what? Ask away, my friend.”

  “The entrances to the inn, are they locked at night?”

  “We’re told the front door is locked at midnight, but there’s a bell for late-comers that the night man anwers. The side and back doors are supposed to be locked at night, but we haven’t inquired enough about them.”

  “Another question. What about guests last night?”

  “Six men, besides the Smith party. Sales representatives and businessmen, apparently. I have their names and addresses.”

  “Locals?”

  Perkins shook his head. “Locals wouldn’t be likely to stay here.”

  “Dumb question.”

  Perkins smiled briefly. “They were from Birmingham, Manchester, London, and Bath. Headquarters will check on them if, in his wisdom, Superintendent Hawley considers it important. We want to see the man from Bath, a chap named Peter Tarvin. He got quarrelsome in the bar last night, and Doggett put him in jail. He needed help in subduing him. And guess who helped? One Oliver Smith.”

  “Is Tarvin still in jail?”

  “No, confound it! Doggett let him out this morning, since, as Doggett put it, he had kind of sobered up. That was before Smith’s body was found. Not to worry, however. We’ve located him. He’ll be on hand in the morning.”

  “Anything on the other lodgers?”

  “Not a thing. They left early. They can wait. There are hotter prospects right here.”

  “An in-house job, you think?”

  Perkins nodded. “From present indications.” He put his pipe aside. “The preliminary questions didn’t get us anywhere much. The Americans all are as innocent as spring lambs, to hear them tell it. Likewise with the girl, Rose, and the others we’ve had time for. But bear in mind that the questions were more or less superficial. Since you’ll be questioning the Americans next time, I imagine you’ll want—well, to bear down, so to speak.”

  “Whatever the occasion calls for.”

  “There’s one other thing. Goodman will be staying at the inn, and you can get in touch with me through him.”

  Goodman looked up, grinning, catching Perkins’s attention.

  There was a certain sheepishness in Perkins’s manner. “It’s this way. Doggett came to me. Seems he inherited a big house and got it divided into two sections, both complete, soundproofing between so his phone won’t disturb tenants. But no luck with tenants so far, so he invited me in. The damn man was so eager, so anxious to put himself in a good light that I felt sorry for him and said yes.”

  Goodman chuckled. “Sympathy will do you in if you’re not careful, Inspector.”

  Perkins said, somewhat meekly, “They’re very nice quarters.”

  Sympathetic in turn, if not with Doggett, Charleston said, “An advantage. You’ll be right there if Doggett gets alerted.”

  “Yes. That’s enough for tonight, I suppose,” Perkins said, sighing. “I’m afraid it’s too late for a beer.”

  “No sir,” Goodman spoke up. “I put some in the cooler just in case.”

  “John, I forgive you your impertinences.”

  Perkins and Goodman drank silently, their faces thoughtful. At last Perkins shook himself and said, “It’s early days yet. Up and at ’em tomorrow.”

  Charleston said nothing until his beer was finished. Then he stood and said, “Goodnight, men,” and heard their replies as he went out the door.

  Geeta was asleep. He listened to her deep and quiet breathing and in the dim glow of a night light saw a tendril of hair curled on her forehead. To touch it back would be to awaken her.

  He shed his coat and walked quietly to the small dressing room for his pajamas. But before he could take them from the shelf, he heard a light knocking at the door. He tiptoed there, opened it, and laid a finger across his lips at the sight of his visitor.

  Goodman said, almost in a whisper, “I’m sorry, sir, but could I talk to you for a minute?”

  Charleston nodded, took his coat from the chair, and let himself out, careful about closing the door. “Where?” he asked.

  “Somewhere private, sir. Not the cottage. He might spot us.”

  “My car then? It’s around at the side.”

  Goodman nodded and led the way out.

  In the car he said, “The inspector wouldn’t thank me for this. He’s too proud.”

  “That doesn’t tell me much.”

  Goodman shifted uneasily and waited for words to come. “I’m maybe a bloody fool,” he said, “but maybe not. Maybe not.”

  Charleston waited for more.

  “All right,” Goodman said after a long pause, “you know the inspector and you know the super, but you don’t know it all.”

  “Hardly.”

  “The fact is that the super is out to get the inspector, on any grounds he can trump up. The inspector deserves a lot better than that. He’s a good officer.”

  “I feel sure of that.”

  “And Hawley, begging your pardon, sir, is a right bastard, as mean a man as you are likely to meet.”

  “So?”

  “There’s noth
ing fair about it. Inspector Perkins should be the superintendent and Hawley the inspector, or lower down. It turned out the opposite. Inspector Perkins was slated for the promotion, but Hawley got it.”

  “How?”

  “By sucking up to the chief constable. Also, he’s Hawley’s uncle.”

  “Nepotism.”

  “Favoritism, anyhow. The chief constable, now—”

  “Wait a minute. How much brass in your outfit?”

  “Brass?”

  “Officers then. Inspector, superintendent, and then what?”

  “There’s the chief superintendent and the chief constable.”

  “Lots of generals in your army.”

  “Seems like to you, I suppose. What I was saying, the chief constable was fine and all right once, but he’s got old, older than his years, and he doesn’t listen to anybody much except that nephew of his.”

  “Who has nothing good to say about Perkins?”

  “That’s it. And look here, why do you reckon Hawley agreed to let you in on the case? I’ll tell you. So if we break it, you’ll get the credit, and if we don’t, Inspector Perkins will get the blame.”

  “Neat arrangement,” Charleston said dryly.

  “Some of the juices went out of Inspector Perkins when he didn’t get that promotion,” Goodman said, partly to himself. “He used to find some joy, some spirit in his work, and now he just goes along, all business, without a laugh in him. They gave him a tough job in Cheltenham, and Hawley pulled him off of it before you could say scat. No explanation, but the word went around that he wasn’t getting anywhere with his investigation. But Inspector Perkins didn’t kick or mention facts. Not his way. He keeps it all inside him, boiling, and one day the boiler will explode. Pressure cooker, like. I worry about him. A man can stand so much, then he blows up.”

  “That would suit Superintendent Hawley?”

  “Too right it would. Look at the situation here. Hawley lets Perkins have one man. Me. We should have at least two detective constables, asking questions, doing some house-to-house, finding if any strangers, suspicious characters, were noticed by the locals. But what does the inspector have instead? Me, and that poor muttonhead, Doggett, who has other chores to do, like any police constable.”

  “So Hawley wants him to fail.”

  “Sure. Wants reason to pull him off, get him discharged or demoted to a lousy desk job. And Inspector Perkins puts up with it, has to, I reckon, while the pressure in him mounts. No safety valve, either, none unless we solve this case quick. He won’t kowtow to Hawley.”

  “Would you have him do that?”

  “No. No. But I can hope to help keep the lid on.”

  “All right, Sergeant. And thanks. But why are you telling me all this?”

  “Mr. Charleston, it’s because maybe you can help. I don’t mean just by questioning the Americans. I mean all the way.”

  “Don’t worry about that. When I agreed to do the questioning, I did it knowing I’d have to be completely involved.”

  “It’s not that Inspector Perkins isn’t a capable detective. He’s damn good. You have to believe that. But I’m remembering what my father used to tell me: two heads are better than one.”

  “Let’s count yourself and make it three.”

  Goodman gave a fleeting smile, put his hand on the door handle, said a thank you and, as he left the car, threw back, “We have to solve this case. We just have to.”

  Chapter Seven

  Geeta shared an early breakfast with Charleston, early though a good many customers were already in the dining room. “Today,” she said, “I start on my family line—that is, if they’ve left any traces.” For the day she had put on a gray woolen skirt and a cherry-colored cardigan.

  “Good hunting,” Charleston said, pushing back from the table. “Time for me to go.”

  “Chick, you be careful now.”

  “Sure. Coming?”

  She only hoped he wouldn’t be getting himself into any danger.

  She stopped in the lobby to talk to Mrs. Vaughn, smiling in return to Charleston’s goodbye salute. Mrs. Vaughn stood behind the desk, looking frail but somehow resolute. “Good morning, Mrs. Charleston. Something?”

  “I’m looking for word of my ancestors. I mean I’m tracing my family, or trying to. Maybe you can help. My maiden name was Hawthorne. Do you know of any Hawthornes around here or who once were around?”

  “No. I’m sorry. But we don’t go back very far ourselves. Just twelve years.”

  “Who might know? Some old man or woman, if you can think of one?”

  Mrs. Vaughn tapped a pencil against her front teeth as if as an aid to thought. “There’s the old grocer. Ebersole is his name. He’s very old, though quite alert, but he’s not a native so probably can’t help you. Then there’s old Mrs. Williams, but the poor thing is not right in the head these days. There’s Mr. Ross, but he’s bedridden and doesn’t see company. Oh, yes, here’s a possibility. Mr. Steele. Mr. George Steele. He must be pushing ninety, but his head’s clear, so I’m told. He has a housekeeper, Mrs. Brownlow. Why don’t I call and see if I can arrange a visit?”

  “Would you, please?”

  Mrs. Vaughn turned to the telephone. The call completed, she said to Geeta, “Mr. Steele is an early riser. He’s installed for the morning and will be pleased to see you.”

  “Fine, and thank you. Now where does he live?”

  “At the very end of the street. Last house on the right. That way.” Mrs. Vaughn pointed the direction. “Nothing’s very far in our village.”

  “I wonder if it’s going to rain?”

  “It might. The sky’s a trifle gray.”

  Geeta turned. “I’ll get my umbrella.” It was a new one, small, bought in Edinburgh. With it in hand, furled, she set out. You didn’t see umbrellas in Montana often, she thought. Too much wind, too little rain. In London during a shower a whole busy street had suddenly blossomed with them. Even under gray skies the Cotswolds buildings looked warm and inviting.

  A small, tidy woman opened the door of what must be the Steele home. “Do come in,” she said. “We were expecting you. Mrs. Charleston, isn’t it? My name is Mrs. Brownlow.” She led Geeta into a small parlor, where an old man sat with a robe around his knees. The room with its worn furniture looked cozy. A well-trodden oriental rug lay on the floor.

  The old man raised a thin arm and said, “Howjudo, Miss. Have a chair there.”

  “I’m doing fine, thanks,” she said and sat down. “I hope you are.”

  “Well as can be expected, as the hospitals say when they’re expecting the worst. I’m ancient, that’s all.”

  “You know my name?”

  “Charlton, wasn’t it?”

  “Charleston. Marguerite Charleston.”

  “American, by the sound of you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Putting up at the Ram’s Head, huh? Mrs. Brownlow tells me murder’s been done there. Another American.”

  “No. An Englishman traveling with Americans.”

  “Americans are a murderin’ lot.” His old eyes questioned her, perhaps asking for denial. A shrunken arm came from underneath the blanket. In the thin skin of his temple, she could see the pulse in a blood vessel. She imagined he had been a robust man until age withered him.

  “We have our full share of killings,” she answered. “But the most famous murder cases happened in England.”

  He smiled. It was a friendly smile that revealed false teeth. “I like answers like that,” he said. “Now just what’s on your mind?”

  “My maiden name was Hawthorne. It’s the Hawthornes I’m interested in. They lived here in Upper Beechwood. It’s a Cotswold name, I was told.”

  Mr. Steele extended a hand. The fingers were bent and knobby. “You’re wrong there, ma’am. The Hawthornes came from Scotland, somewhere near Fort William. Went back there, too, after the boys left for America.”

  So that was the end of her search, Geeta thought, not letting hersel
f sigh. No going back to Scotland now to make up what she had missed. She said, “You knew the family then?”

  “The boys and I played together. The father was a wool-grader, came here hoping to do better, make more money, I guess. I can see him, always with his nose in a book.”

  “Did they have relatives here in the Cotswolds?”

  “Not to my knowing. The boys now, there was Cassius and Augustus. Fancy names. We shortened them to Cash and Gus.” The old man shook his head as if memories swayed him. “I mind so well.”

  “My grandfather’s name was Augustus.”

  “They was bonny lads, Cash and Gus. That’s what a Scot would say.”

  “But they left their parents—”

  “To go to America. Seems the family came into a little money somehow, enough for passage there, where the boys panted to go. They were young men by that time. How’d they fare?” The old eyes waited her answer with faded interest.

  “I know Cassius died a few years after their arrival. Some unidentified disease.”

  “Like the bloody flux people used to talk about?”

  “I don’t know. But Augustus, my grandfather, lived for a long time. I remember him well from my girlhood.”

  “And probably forgot all about home,” Mr. Steele said on a note of grievance.

  “Not a bit of it, Mr. Steele. He always spoke of the Cotswolds as a heaven of a place. He was planning a visit here when he died suddenly of heart disease.”

  “Glad to hear that. Not about his dying, I mean.”

  “Could you tell me where they lived? Is the house still standing?”

  “Torn down years ago,” he answered. “It was condemned to make way for the new road. That’s the way it is. No respect for old things. You might find a picture of it somewhere, but I don’t know where.”

  “I’m grateful for what you have told me.”

  He might not have heard. “I’m ninety-one years old. That’s old enough to forget who you are, who you were, and what’s the use anyhow? Change, that’s the rule of nature.”

  “I must say, if you’ll excuse me, that you’re remarkable.”

  “Yes, a joy to behold. Say, the church keeps records. You could find the birth dates of the boys there and the names of their parents.”