“I ain’t goin’ no place.”
At the car they cleaned their shoes as best they could, using sticks and a couple of rags Goodman found in the back.
Goodman said, shaking his head, “You walked right into that hayfork.”
“Aw, I figured it was safe enough.”
“Meanest weapon on earth. Gives me the shivers. But what about Peck? What’s your notion?”
“I’m not counting him in or out, but I don’t think he’s much of a suspect. A long shot, at best.”
“I’m with you. Just an outside chance. He’s a bite-if-cornered type, and he’ll stay put if we need him. Any other place, and he wouldn’t know where to hang his hat.”
Goodman started the engine.
Chapter Sixteen
It was one-thirty when Goodman wheeled into Burford and parked at the side of the Lamb Inn. He sat for a moment, not moving to get out. “I’ve been here once before,” he said. “A nice place, not showy. It’s older than time.”
“I imagine it has its following.”
“Yes, sir. Just its age interests a lot of people, and I don’t quarrel with that.”
“Old alone isn’t enough for me.”
“Begging your pardon, I know I’ve seen only a little of Americans, but it seems to me they want everything up to date.”
“Not quite that. Sure, we like comfort. Who doesn’t? And I like nice-looking things, things with some style to them. I like them first for themselves alone. Maybe our eyes see differently. We’re a young country, pretty young for fixed attachments to history. There. I’ve spoken my piece, and excuse me.”
Goodman grinned. “I guess I’m ready to do that. Time to go in, isn’t it?”
They entered the modest doorway. On the left was a small bar and on the right a lobby that looked more like a sitting room. A little fire flickered in the fireplace, and a man sat alone in an easy chair. They walked toward him over an uneven stone floor.
He rose when he saw them, a professional man sure enough, staid as a Barclays bank, with a head of white hair, carefully combed, and a dark three-piece suit. Charleston guessed him to be close to sixty.
Goodman approached him, saying, “I’m Detective Sergeant Goodman, Mr. Burroughs.” They shook hands. “And here with me is Charles Charleston, the American I believe the inspector told you about.”
“Yes, indeed,” Burroughs said, taking Charleston’s hand. “And where is the inspector?”
“Tied up, Mr. Burroughs. We’ve had another murder. The town constable.”
“Dear me, what’s happening in Upper Beechwood? Murder after murder.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“So I presumed, though I can’t see how I can help.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Let it wait for now, please. It’s well past noon, and I have ordered beer and some lunch.”
“We really haven’t time …”
Burrough’s hand came up, palm out. “Now. Now. When you’re on a diet regimen, as I am, you try to eat at the appointed times. There’s plenty of time to talk after our food.”
As he spoke, a girl came forward with beer. She set the mugs on a table and said, “I’ll be right back with the rest.”
“Let’s move to the table,” Burroughs suggested.
The girl reappeared with a tray of sandwiches, some of chicken, others of ham.
Goodman bit into a sandwich and, apparently deciding he had to bide his time, said, “Mr. Charleston is an officer of the law himself. That’s in the state of Montana.”
“I’ve heard something about Mr. Charleston,” Burroughs said. “Aren’t these sandwiches good? Whenever I’m in Burford, I come here. The inn is so old, so hauntingly old. How many thousands of people have trod these stone floors? A man loses himself in the past.”
When the sandwiches were gone and the beer down to the last swallows, Burroughs said, “Now then. You know I’ve been expecting you, in fact before now.”
“We slipped up there,” Goodman said.
“All right, gentlemen. I’m at your disposal, subject, of course to certain constraints, if, indeed, any now exist.”
Charleston thought perhaps a little law-library dust may have been disturbed by his nodding.
“We don’t want you to strain any professional relationships,” Goodman assured him. “I’m sure Mr. Charleston agrees. He’s standing in for Inspector Perkins today.”
“Surely,” Burroughs said, “though it seems a bit shameful to disturb the peace of this place with talk about killings.”
Charleston cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. Now we’re wondering whether the two killings were connected, but our interest here is the murder of Oliver Smith. He was a British subject who lived in America. No doubt you’ve heard he was stabbed to death in his bed.”
“All that is known to me, Mr. Charleston.”
“You were registered at the Ram’s Head Inn at Upper Beechwood the night of the murder. We have reason to believe you were there to consult with Mr. Smith, your client.”
“A very nice summation, Mr. Charleston. Please lay any doubts at rest. I was indeed there, and he was my client.”
“And the subject was an estate near Lower Beechwood. He was laying claim to a share of it?”
“There is no need for you to relate these circumstances,” Burroughs said with a trace of a smile. “Let me explain.”
“I am glad to.”
“Fine. Mr. Smith got in touch with me while he was still in America. He was the survivor, the husband, of a woman named Hannah Hawthorne Smith, who had died recently and left quite a sizable estate to their one child, a son now twenty-two years old. As the widower, he contended he had some rights to the decedent’s property.”
“She had never remarried?”
“Neither of them had, I was informed. It was a voluntary separation, not a legal one.”
“And you took the case?”
“I suppose it is moot and that I may talk about it now that he’s dead.”
“A sister of his survives.”
“I’m aware of that. A Mrs. Post. Mr. Smith talked a bit about her. He also talked about making a will, but delayed it, presumably waiting on the outcome of his claim. He didn’t ask me to draft one.”
Burroughs went on, “I haven’t heard from her and wouldn’t represent her if I did. The case was shaky enough as it was.”
“You mean you didn’t expect to win it?” Charleston asked.
“Expect is a strong word, Mr. Charleston. Let us say I had some hope. On the chance, however, of an amicable settlement out of court, I went to see the boy, Thomas Smith.”
They waited for him to continue.
Mr. Burroughs shook his head. “I was sorry afterwards that I did. That young man was impossible. At the very thought of parting with any bit of the estate, he practically frothed at the mouth. He actually threatened me. He made threats against Smith, his own father, if he were ever to meet him.” Burroughs sighed. “I came away and prepared the papers.”
“Then Oliver Smith came to England and got in touch with you?”
“And asked for a conference.”
“And when did you hold it?” Goodman asked.
“After your telephone call I refreshed my memory, or, rather, I consulted my records. I saw him on the night of April twenty-one, a Monday.”
“That was the night of the murder, Mr. Burroughs.”
“There is no need to remind me, though I didn’t find out about his death until later.”
“When did you meet him?”
“At nine o’clock that night. I had a dinner invitation at the country home of an old friend—he delayed me. But the late date was quite all right with Mr. Smith.”
“How long were you in conference?”
“Possibly an hour. We agreed he should sue for the spouse’s full share of the estate, though there was scant hope we’d get that much—not too much hope for anything in my judgment. But he insisted.”
“Where did you meet?”
“In my room at the inn.”
“And when you were done, what then?”
“I think you are wondering if I went to the bar. I didn’t. The pleasures of alcohol, except for an infrequent beer, have long since been denied me. I went to bed, having to be in London in good time the next morning.” Mr. Burroughs smiled indulgently. “I imagine you are flirting with the possibility that I killed Mr. Smith. A vain speculation, gentlemen. Of course I didn’t. It was to my interest that he remain alive. Solicitors are not in the habit of doing away with their clients.”
“You will understand, Mr. Burroughs, that we must ask these questions, even though they seem unnecessary to you.”
“I have some familiarity with police procedure.” Mr. Burroughs seemed not at all perturbed.
“Were you disturbed at all during the night, by noises, voices, sounds of disorder? There was a fight in the bar that night.”
“I heard nothing. I slept without once waking up. I rose early, checked out, and may already have been back in London before Mr. Smith’s body was found.”
Charleston, his questions asked, deferred to Goodman, who said, “You told us your hopes of winning in court were not high. Would you be good enough to say why?”
“Does it help, or would it help, your investigation at all?”
“Perhaps not. I’m not sure, Mr. Burroughs, but it might.”
“I can tell you. Nothing is really secret now, I believe. Let me start by saying the law seeks reasonable solutions. That is implicit in all the provisions. We function under the act of April one, nineteen seventy-six.”
Charleston was tempted to blurt out, “April Fool’s Day.”
Burroughs went on to explain the law. Why was it, Charleston wondered, listening to him drone on, that attorneys came to life only when facing a jury?
At last the man came to some answers to the question. “At any rate my case was rather weak. For one thing, Mr. Smith, it seemed plain, was a man of some financial substance. That would have been brought out at the hearing. Was it reasonable, then, that he be granted still more?”
“Not to reasonable men,” Goodman answered.
“More than that, he had not contributed to the support of his wife or his son. I say not contributed, though early on he tried to. He soon gave up.”
“Wasn’t there anything to be said for him,” Charleston asked, “except that he was the widower?”
“Oh, yes. We weren’t quite without ammunition. The wife, according to Smith, was a virago, an entirely impossible woman. Once he had sired a son for her, she had no further use for him, none at all. She ordered him out of the house, out of her sight. Once she threatened him with a knife. Twice, in his early time in America, he had sent checks for the support of the boy. They were never cashed. For a time he tried by phone to get word of the boy. She would slam the receiver.”
“Where does reason enter then?” Charleston asked.
“That’s the question,” Burroughs replied. “Or that would have been the question. Moot now.”
“One last question, Mr. Burroughs,” Charleston said. “Do you—did you—consider young Smith capable of murder?”
Burroughs considered. “In my experience anyone is if provoked enough. But my impression, vague enough, is that Smith is much bark and little bite.”
“No more questions from me, Mr. Burroughs. Sergeant Goodman? No. Our thanks, sir.”
They went to the car. “Nice old gentleman,” Goodman said as they walked.
“Yes, but we ought to see that Smith boy now. He’s hot on my list.”
“Right, but we can’t. Orders.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten.”
“Get back as soon as you’ve talked to Burroughs. That’s what Inspector Perkins said.”
“He’s the boss.”
“It’s more than that with me, sir. That goddamned Hawley, not fit to wipe Inspector Perkins’s boots.” Goodman shook his head, as if shaking the words out. “What next? How long before …? I don’t know. Silly, but could be I can help. Hang together, you know. Anyhow, I can be there.”
Chapter Seventeen
At the outskirts of Upper Beechwood, Goodman said suddenly, “Look, there’s the specialty food van! You know, that Peter Tarvin’s.”
“I see, there by the bed and breakfast place.”
“No mistaking it, once you see it. But he won’t be having breakfast, not at this hour.”
“Maybe just staying in. Special arrangement.”
Later, as they neared the inn and the incidents room, Goodman said, “I see God’s holding court all right.”
Hawley’s Rover, unmarked, blocked the beginning of the path to the incidents room. “Polite bloody bastard,” Goodman said under his breath. “The king can do no wrong.”
Between the Rover and the cottage, a group of men was gathered. Cameras and microphones told who they were.
“So now it’s the press,” Goodman went on. “They’ll be onto you, sir.” He moved around the car toward them. Charleston followed.
“What goes on, you officers?” one yelled at them. “Got a suspect yet?” He and the others pressed closer. “Look, the American! Yank, got anything for us? How do you like playing bobby?”
The man held a mike up to Charleston’s mouth. Cameras clicked and lights flashed. “I like it fine,” Charleston said into the mike while he grinned at the group. “I’m getting an education.”
Goodman undertook to shoulder his way to the door. A reporter blocked him. “Aw, come on, Officer. Be a sport. What’s going on?”
“Sorry. Not ours to say. All right, one bit of news if you haven’t been told. Constable Doggett was killed with a spurtle.”
“What’s a spurtle?”
“Look it up.”
Goodman leading, they pushed through to the door. They got inside with the voices following them.
Superintendent Hawley sat in Perkins’s chair, Perkins at his side. Before them a man waited. He seemed uneasy. Rendell was in the rear.
Hawley looked at them without welcome, as if resenting the interruption. He grunted and said, “Find yourselves seats.” Implicit in his tone was the command to keep silent.
“All right. Let’s proceed.” He spoke to the waiting man, who wore work clothes and had a seasoned and open face and hair that needed cutting. “You were saying your name’s Cantrell, Albert Cantrell, and you have no fixed address.”
“That’s right.”
“Explain, please.”
“I just got a job in Lower Beechwood. There’s a brewery there, and I’m an old hand at it. Go to work Monday.”
“So where are you staying?”
“I can’t find a place for me and my missus in Lower Beechwood yet, so I’m putting up at my brother’s here in the village.”
“Your brother’s here?”
“Him and his wife took off for London. A treat, like, it was, seeing as how I would be here to see to the house.”
“Why didn’t you come to the door earlier when you heard the bell ring?”
“You see, I got a little room in back and, being a stranger, it wasn’t my business who came to the door.”
“But you gave yourself away anyhow, when you let yourself be seen?” Hawley’s smile was nearer a sneer.
“Yeah, the constable seen me when I went to the front room to see had I left my pipe in there.” Cantrell was answering readily enough, but there was a sort of wariness in his face. No wonder, considering Hawley’s speech and manner.
“In the beginning you told us you saw a van. That was after dark last night?”
“You’re right, it was.”
“Did you notice anything else? Any sign of trouble? Any people about?”
“Not that I seen.”
“That was behind the Doggett place?”
“More or less, I guess. Kind of, I would say. But why I know it was the Doggett place is because you said so.”
“Never mind that.” Hawley moved in his chair. “Perkins, you have anything o
n your mind? Spit it out if you do.”
“Yes, sir. I have some questions.”
Hawley didn’t look pleased.
“Mr. Cantrell, you have said you parked your car in the rear of your brother’s place and there was another car nearby. Is that correct?”
“Just a little wrong. You can call my old job a car if you want to, but it’s just loose bolts and nuts and, like I already said, the other machine was a van, not a car. It was a prettied-up van.”
“Is it still there?”
“No sir, I went to see.”
“Did you take any special notice of it when you saw it last night?”
“Just one thing. In my headlights I seen it was marked Kingston and Heath, Specialty Foods.”
“We know that van, Superintendent,” Perkins said quietly.
It took Hawley a moment to make the connection. Then he lunged forward, “Good God, yes! That’s the specialty salesman. That’s Tarvin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put a bulletin out on him! Get him in here!”
Goodman came to his feet. “I’ll get him,” he said.
“You’ll get him?”
“Yes.”
Hawley said, unbelieving, “I suppose you have him in the boot of your car?”
“No, sir.”
“Where then? How?”
“Observation, sir. Simple observation.” Goodman turned his back.
“Take someone with you.”
The door closed on his words.
Hawley turned and spoke, his lips barely opening, “Your man, Goodman, seems to be getting a little too big for his job.”
“Glad you’ve noticed.” Perkins’s tone was icy. “He should have been promoted to inspector long ago.”
“That’s your opinion.” Hawley got up abruptly and began pacing the room. He rubbed his hands together. “But that’s neither here nor there. Tarvin. I didn’t trust him from the first. He’s the connection. You can see it. Smith and Doggett.”
Charleston raised an eyebrow, though Hawley couldn’t see it. He said, “Oh, yes?”
“They jailed him, didn’t they? There’s a motive.”
“Pretty weak, don’t you think?”
“Weak or not, it’s a motive. I’ve known men to be killed for less.” Hawley quit pacing and looked toward the door. “I wish he’d hurry up. You ought to light a firecracker under your men, Inspector.”
Murder in the Cotswolds Page 13
