by Gwen Moffat
‘You know where he is?’ he breathed.
‘Is he not at school?’
‘Oh yes, he’s gone back to school.’ It emerged like a disclaimer to something in his mind. His mouth twitched. A car hooted, traffic was snarling on the quay; he disregarded it.
‘My boy has not been himself lately,’ he said with care. ‘Mrs Jones kept him home while he was sick but he went back to school yesterday. He’s a very bright boy, tries hard—too hard; he’s studying for his O-levels but they say he’s over-taxing his brain.’ He sought for something better. ‘He’s subject to stress.’
‘It must be very difficult to keep an active boy indoors when he’s off school.’
‘We do all we can.’ His eyes went to the traffic jam, returned to her apprehensively. ‘We both work for Mr Roderick, at least the wife works mornings. We can’t be at home all the time.’ He started to edge away.
‘What time did he come home Wednesday evening?’
He wiped his palms on his trousers. ‘Wednesday evening?’
‘He was at the mill cottage.’
‘Oh no.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, he wasn’t.’
‘I saw him there.’
Caradoc drew himself up, his face wet with sweat. ‘You were mistaken, madam; my boy never went near that place.’
*
The Jones’s cottage was on a knoll and approached from the green by one of the sunken alleys, this one slipping through the gap between the back gardens of the Post Office and its neighbours.
It was a white cottage with a primary blue trim, its front garden walled with stone finished by horizontal slabs so highly polished that they resembled marble without the streaks. Dotting the baked earth of a flower bed were stiff isolated specimens of marigold, lobelia and a pink snap-dragon. It was a bright tidy unhappy garden. A slatted metal mud trap guarded the slab outside the open front door. Miss Pink wondered if the slab could be blackleaded. It shone like ebony.
The room inside the door was dim beyond the sunlight but there were gleams from pale furniture which was covered with china ornaments and brasswork. There was a smell of Air Wick and fried meat.
The mud trap rattled under her feet and there was a sound inside like rats disturbed. Thirza Jones came to the door, blinking in the sunlight.
‘It’s Miss Pink,’ she said unnecessarily.
‘You’re not well, Mrs Jones.’
The woman’s eyes were bloodshot and the fingers that traced the line of her lips trembled uncontrollably. Miss Pink had come with questions but in the face of the other’s obvious distress she could not ask them, or perhaps, she thought with a sinking heart, they were already answered, but she had to say something; she couldn’t turn away in silence.
‘I’ve been talking to your husband, Mrs Jones; I called to ask how you were.’
Thirza stared listlessly at her. A bumble bee was caught in the bell of a snap-dragon, buzzing in a panic of claustrophobia.
‘My boy hasn’t done nothing wrong.’ It sounded like an incantation, as if she had said it many times before.
Miss Pink said: ‘Jakey’s young, and Mr Pryce is an understanding man. Where is Jakey now?’
Thirza’s eyes were focused on something beyond the fish quay. ‘Who’s Mr Pryce?’ she asked dully.
‘Superintendent Pryce.’
The woman’s face was flooded with hostility.
‘They’ve got no call to come here! They wants to go to that Myfanwy Post: ask her what her boy was doing when my lad were tucked up safe in bed. Sending a patrol car after him! Parked on the green for all to see. It’s not right! We’re decent people, not criminals.’
‘Last night?’
‘Last night. Parked on the green—’ she was working herself up, ‘—but Jakey’d gone for a walk—’ She stopped and twisted her hands. ‘I’ve got the milk boiling over,’ she said wildly. The door slammed in Miss Pink’s face.
She retraced her steps down the steep path. Through the gap between the houses she saw a familiar black car slowing to halt on the green. On her left an alley branched off, twisting round a corner. She took it and, stopping beyond a straggling dog-rose, leaned idly against the wall. After a moment Pryce appeared, followed by Williams. They climbed the bank to the Jones’s cottage in silence and she heard the mud trap rattle under their feet. She turned away and continued along the path which ran into that which debouched beside her own garage. She let herself into Captain’s Cottage and went through to the terrace where she sat down and leaned back in her chair. Her thoughts were almost unbearable.
A footfall alerted her. Samuel was stepping over the wall from the graveyard, Caithness peeping coyly from inside his shirt. She looked at the two faces, both ingenuous.
‘Well,’ she said with assumed cheerfulness, ‘that’s one problem solved.’
Samuel said feelingly: ‘I wish I could have the opportunity to save your life.’
‘Nonsense. He was holding his own very well against the gulls.’ She told him about the birds and he shuddered.
‘That’s one crime that can’t be attributed to Jakey Jones,’ she said grimly.
‘Little sod! I’d have throttled him if you hadn’t come along at that moment.’ He looked murderous, then his face changed, became acutely anxious. ‘That was a bad business last night.’
‘How is Rachel this morning?’
‘She’s better; at least, she’s gone out.’
‘On her own?’
‘Yes. I don’t like it. Neither do they. I spoke to Norman on the phone. He’s worried out of his mind. I—I’m very fond of Rachel, in an avuncular fashion.’
‘She turned to you in an emergency.’
‘I wish the emergencies weren’t there that she had to turn to me. They should get her to a doctor, not let her go out on her own, but she’s stubborn as a mule. What’s behind this?’
‘Sandra’s death?’ Miss Pink wondered. ‘Fire was the common factor: burns.’
‘Poor kid.’ He was anguished.
‘I talked to her yesterday; I thought she was very reasonable, at first.’
‘Then?’
‘Sandra’s death again; she’s worried about that. Samuel, the police are at Jakey’s house; they’re looking for him.’
‘Now? I saw the car on the green last night.’
‘They missed him. I’ve just seen Thirza Jones. Pryce is with her now.’
‘What are they after?’
‘You asked me what Jakey said last evening: when I told you to go and look for Caithness. Something odd happened; he was boasting about the life of crime that was opening out for him in London and New York—’
‘What!’
‘Thorne’s influence, I suspect. But his reaction was peculiar when I asked who would sponsor him. He didn’t understand so I asked whom he would touch for the money. That frightened him.’
‘Is that when he slunk away?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Touch for the money? Did you mean some kind of blackmail?’
‘I didn’t. It appears that he thought I did.’
The doorbell rang. When she opened the door she was so surprised that for one moment she couldn’t put a name to the caller: the lined face, the intense eyes. . . .
*
‘Mr Carter! Good morning.’
‘May I come in?’
She hesitated, then led him to the terrace, murmuring politely about the weather, wondering what on earth he could want with her. She introduced Samuel. Carter studied the other man carefully, his eyes resting for a moment on the kitten, still opting for safety inside the shirt.
‘We know each other,’ he said.
‘Good God!’ Samuel sat down heavily. Miss Pink stared at Carter.
‘He’s Julius,’ Samuel said weakly. ‘I recognise the voice.’
Miss Pink closed her eyes in an effort of recall. ‘George Harte?’ she asked coldly.
‘Carter,’ he corrected. ‘Harte is a trade name.’
‘
Sit down, Mr Carter.’ She was stern. ‘Why have you come here?’
‘I came to Abersaint because I have an interest in what happened here. I came to you because you know it wasn’t an accident, and I’d like to hear more about that.’
‘The police know it too. You realise that I shall inform the superintendent in charge that you’re here.’
‘That doesn’t bother me; I’ve done nothing illegal. But you may not want to go to them after you’ve heard what I have to say.’
‘No? And what’s your side of the story?’
‘My story. It’s enlightening.’
Caithness emerged delicately from Samuel’s shirt, dropped to the ground, walked over and leaped on Carter’s lap. He didn’t touch the kitten but he smiled an extraordinary sweet smile. ‘It’s Thorne’s story really,’ he said. ‘I was on my way home from Italy early yesterday morning and I arrived to find the papers full of Sandra and her book. So I didn’t go to my flat but to another place, and it was there that Thorne rang me and told me what had happened. What he had to say brought me down here. And don’t ask me where Thorne is. I don’t know.’ He paused but they made no comment. He went on: ‘Thorne didn’t go to the door with the television men. He had no indication that anything was wrong until after they’d gone, when the police rang and asked if he’d lost a car. He says the local men would know the Spitfire. He looked outside and saw it had gone. He went upstairs and Sandra—who was already in bed—said she left the car out front with the keys in the ignition. She was like that.
‘Thorne gave the copper the registration number and the fellow said it was in a field—the last on the left before you come to the main road. He said one of the tyres was flat; otherwise it was undamaged and the key was in the ignition. He suggested that Thorne should come and collect it, and he rang off.
‘Thorne went back upstairs and had a quick word with Sandra. They agreed that the Spitfire had most likely been taken after dark and probably when several other people were driving away. They thought it might have been taken about ten-thirty and they reckoned it was this lad, Jakey Jones, who’d gone for a joy-ride. Incidentally, Sandra was very tired and cold sober; my first thought was that she’d had a terrible accident with a cigarette and drink, but Thorne said she wasn’t drinking, nor even smoking, and there was nothing on the bedside table but a clock. I got the picture of a very tired girl wanting only to go to sleep.’
The lines in Carter’s face seemed to have deepened. Absently, with a gentle finger, he started to rub the angle of the kitten’s jaw. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘Thorne set out to walk up the valley. The car was in the field all right, and with a flat tyre. There was no sign of the police. He pumped up the tyre and drove back to the cottage. When he got back it was blazing. He didn’t stand a chance of getting in. So he came south and got in touch with me. He said there was nothing wrong with the tyre he’d had to pump up; it had been let down deliberately: to keep him away from the cottage that much longer, just to make sure she’d die.’
In the sudden silence they could hear Caithness purring happily. Miss Pink didn’t stop to analyse why she should find this sound slightly shocking. Her mind, perhaps in self-defence, caught on a trivial point.
‘Sandra said her name was part of the disguise, and Cynthia Gale was how she was known in London. Why do you call her Sandra?’
‘That was her name. Cynthia Gale was how she was known professionally. It doesn’t matter.’
‘No. Where is the proof for this story?’
‘There isn’t any—unless I produce Thorne, which I can’t, but you’ll know whether it fits the facts.’
‘The suggestion is that the murderer hid the Spitfire in order to get Thorne away from the cottage?’
‘There was another objective. At first it was thought to be an accident, but if the police saw through that, Thorne was in a position to be the prime suspect.’
‘Why should you believe him?’ Samuel asked.
‘If he’d been the killer he wouldn’t have phoned me. Besides, he had no motive.’
‘The typescript,’ Miss Pink put in.
‘He didn’t steal it; he couldn’t enter the cottage.’
‘That’s working on the premise that part of his story is true. He could have killed her and taken the script, set fire to the cottage, then given you a story that was totally fabricated.’
‘He’s still got to sell the book to some kind of agent. He had an agent—in me.’
‘If blackmail rather than publication were the object,’ she pointed out, ‘he wouldn’t need any help for that.’
Carter didn’t turn a hair. ‘He would. Thorne was a small operator—and he knew his limitations. And he knew Honey had the notes; that’s proof that the book is ours, if he wanted to sell it elsewhere.’ He looked at Samuel. ‘I shall want those notes.’
‘The police have them.’
They regarded each other like two strange dogs.
‘Why aren’t you going to the police with this story?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘They wouldn’t believe me.’
She stood up and walked to the graveyard wall. The kitten yawned and stretched, jumped down and lay in the shade of the fuchsia hedge. Miss Pink came back and sat in her chair.
‘Now tell us why you’ve come to me.’
‘The killer’s a local man. Do you have ideas about that?’
‘No.’ It was too quick.
‘There was a telephone call to Fleet Street.’ He looked along the terrace. ‘At twelve-thirty on Tuesday night.’ He glanced at Samuel. ‘Who made it?’
The other was wary. ‘We assumed you did.’
‘Thorne may have assumed that. You wouldn’t, nor this lady. Who knew she was writing the book, besides yourself?’
Samuel’s head moved fractionally but he didn’t look at Miss Pink.
‘What makes you think it’s a local person?’ she asked.
‘Because the man who claimed he was a policeman told Thorne exactly where to find the Spitfire. The business at the cottage looks like two people: one to take the car, the other to kill the girl and set fire to the place. There’d be signals between them so that one could let the other know when the reporters were safely away from the cottage. That could be done with a torch. So who knew about the book besides yourselves?’
There was a pause. Miss Pink said: ‘I didn’t know.’
‘So only Honey knew.’
Samuel said firmly: ‘I didn’t call Fleet Street. It would be cutting my own throat—financially.’
‘It would,’ Carter agreed.
The doorbell rang again. Alarm flashed between Miss Pink and Samuel, and was observed by Carter.
‘Will you answer it?’ he asked politely. ‘If it’s the police, I don’t want to talk to them yet, and I think you ought not to until we’ve finished this discussion.’
She stalked through the sitting room and opened the front door.
Caradoc Jones stood on the step and he was furiously angry. He pushed past her and walked into the room where he wheeled and confronted her.
‘You brought the police!’
Miss Pink took a breath and noticed out of the corner of her eye that her other visitors were invisible beyond the open window.
‘He’s being victimised!’ Caradoc shouted. ‘Mrs Jones is collapsed! She suffers with her nerves.’ She tried to speak but he rushed on: ‘He’s got a right to go where he likes! Not illegal, is it, to go walking? Boys is boys; whatever he’s done, it’s all the fault of that Ossie Hughes. Corrupting influence, that’s what he is; my boy’s been under my eye all the time—’ His mouth hung open as Carter appeared in the doorway leading to the kitchen. ‘Who’re you?’ he yelped.
Carter looked him over carefully. ‘What time did Jakey get home Thursday: very early, just after midnight, after the fire started? Half an hour? An hour?’
Caradoc’s hands went to his throat in a gesture that was effeminate yet poignant. ‘He never—’ He could get no further.
‘Did you see him come in?’ Carter was implacable. The other shook his head dumbly. ‘He comes through the window then.’ Caradoc stared like a petrified rabbit. Carter took him by the arm. ‘Come on; I want a word with your boy.’
Caradoc jerked free. ‘He’s not at home.’
‘Ah no; he’ll be at school.’
‘He’s not then!’ It was an echo of Jakey. ‘There’s no school today. They’ve got no water.’
‘So where is he?’
There was a gleam of defiance in the other man’s eye as he drew himself up. ‘I don’t keep track of my son’s whereabouts.’
‘Except midnight Wednesday, or early Thursday, when you know he wasn’t in bed.’
Jones gulped and blundered out of the room. Miss Pink took a step towards the door but he was letting himself out. Samuel appeared in the kitchen, Caithness on his shoulder.
Carter said: ‘Jakey was at the party during the evening, serving drinks. Thorne doesn’t remember seeing him after ten-thirty, and he had a good look because he didn’t like having the boy around. He’d caught him playing Peeping Tom once. Unfortunately Sandra was inclined to make a pet of him; like befriending a rattlesnake, Thorne said. Are you going to the police, Miss Pink?’ The tone was insinuating.
She looked at him without expression. Silence hung between them.
‘Motive,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Someone killed her to get the typescript? A local person was mentioned in it?’
‘For God’s sake!’ Samuel exclaimed. ‘I wrote the thing; no local people were mentioned.’
‘Do you know the intimate history of all your locals? Actually, Thorne bears you out. Sandra never so much as hinted that she’d known anybody down here previously. There were men—’ his eyes narrowed, ‘—but no one serious. Thorne would have known that too.’ The others were tense. ‘No,’ he went on, as if one of them had spoken, ‘she wasn’t having an affair with a local. This was a premeditated crime; not a violent sex quarrel.’ Miss Pink saw a flaw but her face was schooled. ‘Although,’ he continued, as if telepathic, ‘if someone thought she was having an affair with a husband or boy friend. . . . a woman will go to great lengths to kill carefully, methodically . . . then you could have a premeditated crime. What was wrong with Rachel Bowen last night when she carried you off in such a hurry?’
