A Country Way of Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 4)

by R. A. Bentley

'Well, I've rather put him on the spot, you know, but I thought it worth a try. The problem will be getting it past the Assistant Commissioner, who has all the flexibility of a gatepost. That's if he can even get hold of him. If he decides it's not on, I'll just have to do my best unofficially.'

  'I think you're right to try,' said Lavinia. 'It's a bit queer about that note, and we owe it to poor Ian, I think.'

  'He may not necessarily thank me for it,' warned Miles. 'Skeletons in cupboards and all that. In some ways I'd rather leave it to someone less involved with the village, but suppose he's a dud? Just hubris, probably, thinking I can do it better.'

  'I'm sure you can, darling,' said Connie. 'After all, you are Scotland Yard.'

  'And local knowledge is bound to help,' said Roger. 'But why Rattigan? Not that he isn't welcome. I'm not sure where we'll put him, mind.'

  'He's not essential,' said Miles, 'but I'm used to bouncing ideas off him. We're very much a team in the way we work. Also it might be quicker with two.'

  'Putting him up isn't a problem,' said Lavinia. 'Mrs Piper can have him. I was thinking of her for Ian before Martin took him in.'

  'I hope he comes,' said Connie. 'I like him. But how would he get here?'

  'Train. It's the only way at the moment. Assuming it's running, that is. He'll need to leave Town soon, though, if he's to get here today.'

  The telephone rang.

  'That was quick,' said Roger, reaching for it. 'More likely a patient, I should think. Two three eight. Dr Felix speaking . . . Why good morning, Chief Constable! . . . Yes, the very same . . . Not at all, I remember it clearly. Westminster, wasn't it? Nice to speak to you again. . . . Oh, at least. Tempus fugit, eh? . . . Yes, it is an unusual name. Not always a blessing in some ways . . . Alas, that's true; we curse the creature daily. . . Yes we have, but ours is a she . . . Well, it could have been worse, you know; I could have been named Crippen . . . Yes, you never know do you? But for fortune and all that. I take it you want my son? . . . Yes, he's here. I'll pass him over.'

  Miles, who had been mock weeping on Connie's shoulder, sighed and took the instrument. 'Chief Constable, hello! . . . Yes, so I guessed. That's most kind of you . . . Yes, I have. I felt I should offer, being on the spot you know. Not wanting to tread on anyone's toes, of course . . . Is that a fact? Well, I'm sorry to hear it. Is he leaving the force entirely? . . . Oh, I see. Might even be a help to you then? . . . Well, it's nice of you to say so . . . Yes, I will indeed . . . That's very kind of you, sir . . . He has? Oh good . . . The trout? . . . Haha, yes I will, sir. We often tease him about it. Sir Neville, I'm sorry; you're breaking up this end. The weather, I expect . . . Yes, of course. And thank you for dealing with it so promptly. It's greatly appreciated . . . Yes, goodbye.'

  'All agreed then?'asked Lavinia.

  'Seems so, thanks to Polly. He cut out the AC entirely and went straight to Sir Neville, who promptly requested us. The wonders of modern communication, eh? And Rattigan's on his way. Hope he remembers his gumboots.'

  Roger chuckled. 'Extraordinary fellow, that. Could talk the hind leg off a donkey. Rubbish, a lot of it. He was still an MP when I knew him.'

  'In some ways he's remarkably astute,' said Miles. 'Definitely not to be underestimated. Teddy did, unfortunately.'

  Connie laughed in recollection of the tale. 'Do your parents know about the trout?'

  'Yes, they do. I've run out of people to regale with it, unfortunately. Sir Neville's lost his two top men as it happens – one to ill health, one to pastures new – so it's worked out rather well. You do realise I shall be rather busy, darling? Do you want to go to your parents, when it's possible?'

  'Are you sending me away?' demanded Connie. 'You beast!'

  'Heavens no! That's the last thing I want. I thought you might be bored, that's all.'

  'Of course, she must stay,' said Lavinia. 'How is your cooking, Connie?'

  Connie smiled ruefully. 'Basic, I'm afraid. I can do things with eggs.'

  'I couldn't even do that until we came here. I'll lend you a pinnie and by the time you leave you'll be as good as I am, for what it's worth. Which reminds me — eggs. Especially if Teddy is coming. He'll be wanting cake. I'll pop across and get some.'

  'We'll come with you,' said Miles. 'It's time Connie experienced Caliban.'

  'Oh, you're so rude about the poor man!' said Lavinia.

  A snowy hundred yard plod led from Bere Farm's unprepossessing entrance – marked by an old oil-drum with the name painted on it – to its yard and buildings. Here, surrounded by rusting farm equipment and the wrecks of old carts was the Clements' original shack. To Connie's surprise and delight, the central part of it was recognisably a superannuated railway-carriage, with a glazed porch along its length and ramshackle wings of bitumen-coated timber appended to either end. 'Oh, how lovely!' she said. 'I could happily live there.'

  'I'll make them an offer,' said Miles. 'Five bob should do it.'

  A little further down the hillside was the new and as yet uncompleted farmhouse, a surprisingly large and handsome building in the local vernacular of flint and brick but with a tiled roof.

  They entered through an unframed aperture and crossed the echoing shell of the hallway, Lavinia tapping on what turned out to be the kitchen door. It was opened by Josie Clement, a big, loose-limbed woman of forty or so, wearing an overcoat and fluffy slippers. 'Come on in,' she said. 'Excuse the state of me won't you? It's so cold in here. Hello Miles. We saw you in church, but you didn't see us. And this must be Connie. I'm very pleased to meet you, my dear. Cup of tea? No, I was forgetting, we've no milk. Coffee and evaporated?'

  The engagement-ring having been enthused over, they sat around a bright new range in the generous-sized but as yet bare-looking kitchen and discussed the events of the previous night.

  'Poor Ian,' said Josie, 'And Daisy will be so upset for him. We wouldn't have known about it – we can't see the village from here – but Margie went for milk this morning – except there wasn't any – and told us. And poor Miss Pruitt! They were so devoted to each other. Whatever will she do? Of course we knew Cecily was poorly but it's still a shock, isn't it? And whom do you suppose will play the organ now?'

  Afterwards came the tour of inspection. Some rooms had been completed and fashionably furnished – notably the bedrooms and bathroom – but other parts were still in bare brick.

  'We're paying for it as we go,' explained Josie. 'Nearly there now. The heating's on thank goodness, although it's taking an age to warm through. It'll help when we have all the doors on.'

  'Where's Bert?' asked Miles.

  'It's feeding time. He'll be busy for a while. Margie's gone to a friend. I don't see much of her these days.'

  Connie went to a bedroom window and looked out. The main rooms all faced south, giving a view over fields of unbroken snow, the forest, as ever, forming a backdrop. Bleak now, it was no doubt beautiful in summer. The nearest field was dotted with pig shelters, not presently in use, while on a rare patch of level ground was a triple row of smart, brick-built sties. Plodding between them was a man with two pails. Acting on impulse, she slipped away from the others and went outside, guided by the sound of excited squealing.

  Sharp on the crisp air was the smell of pig, the more so among the sties, where it seemed to carry with it the faint warmth of their bodies. The man, who had disappeared, now ducked out of a low door, making her jump. 'Hello,' she said. 'Are you Mr Clement?'

  Bert Clement turned slowly towards her. For some moments he didn't speak, simply looking her up and down in an appraising manner that a Victorian heroine might have described as insolent.

  Despite the cold, he was wearing only a filthy shirt and bib-and-brace overall, tucked into his boots. She was immediately aware of great physical power, somewhat reminiscent of Gabriel Shutler, though Bert was barely of average height. The undoubted shortness of his limbs was scarcely enough to suggest a vertically ambulatory pig, but when it came to his head she had to admit Miles had a point. It was
of notably porcine shape, with a weak chin sloping into a more or less vestigial neck and oddly high ears bent sideways under the brim of a very battered top hat. His eyes were small and round and his nose large and broad, the nostrils prominent, as if an invisible finger had been placed on the end of it and pushed firmly upwards. This also had the effect of creating a deep horizontal crease between what would have been his eyebrows, had he possessed any. He was, indeed, as ugly as a man could well be, and she immediately felt sorry for him.

  'An' who mid you be?' he demanded.

  'I'm Connie Harrison,' she explained. 'Miles Felix's fiancée.'

  This seemed to satisfy him and he beckoned her closer. They were standing by a low wall and the gentle command of 'choog choog' provoked the appearance of an enormous pig. Supporting itself on the wall by its front legs it observing her with that cynically amused expression common to its kind.

  'Hello piggy!' laughed Connie. 'You made me jump. Are you a gentleman pig or a lady pig?'

  'Thik be Tiny,' said Bert with evident pride. 'He be four year old.'

  'Goodness! How many piglets has he sired?'

  'A hunderd score an' twenty,' replied Bert promptly, 'good-uns too.'

  'Well he's beautiful,' said Connie. 'Can I pet him?'

  'Yer could scratch 'is back,' said Bert. 'He do like thaat.'

  Connie smilingly did so, but under the disconcerting intensity of his gaze she became aware of the narrowness of the path between the sties and that she would have to pass him to return to the house.

  'Now then, my lovely,' he said.

  Turning left at the crossroads, Miles made his way to the Red House. The adjacent yard and buildings had the purposeful look of a well-run farm, while the house itself stood a little apart, surrounded by a white picket fence. In summer, the garden within would be bright with Alma Bulloch's flowers, but now there was only a childish attempt at a snowman with coals for eyes and a parsip nose. He was contemplating it when Alma came out. A plain, round-featured little woman of about his own age, she was leading by the hand her youngest, a girl of two or so.

  'Hello, Miles,' she said. 'Isn't it too dreadful? Neither of us slept a wink last night. I'm hoping to get some bread. I should have gone before but I can't think straight this morning. Daisy and Ian are seeing what they can salvage from the cottage, but Martin's in, if you want him.'

  'I shouldn't mind a word with him, if he's free,' said Miles. 'Who is this young lady?'

  'Why of course, you haven't met!' said Alma. 'This is Janice. Say hello to Miles, darling. Miles's daddy is Dr Felix. We know Dr Felix, don't we?'

  Janice seemed disinclined to say hello, but stretched up her small arms to him. 'Well you're a little thing,' he said, automatically picking her up. 'You'll need to grow a bit if you want to help about the farm.'

  'You are honoured,' said Alma, impressed. 'Do you like the little ones?'

  'Yes I do,' he said, addressing the child. 'Especially with lashings of gravy.' Janice eyed him doubtfully and glanced at her mother.

  'Well you'll have your own soon, I daresay,' said Alma. 'Congratulations, by the way.'

  'Thanks, Alma. How does Ian seem?'

  'Up and down. It won't do him any harm to wander about the cottage for a while; it'll make it seem more real. Things don't, do they, to start with? Miles, I know what you men are like and he might not tell you himself, but Martin is pretty cut up as well. He was very fond of Cecily, he'd known her all his life, of course. Also there was the fire. I'm so glad I didn't know what he was doing. I'd have had kittens.'

  'Kittens,' repeated Janice solemnly.

  'Yes, kittens, my sweet,' said Alma, taking her back. 'We like kittens, don't we?'

  'Are you all right to go for the bread?' said Miles, eyeing her swelling form.

  'Lord, yes! Don't you worry about me.'

  'Come through to the sitting room,' said Martin. 'Drink?'

  'Any ill effects from the fire?' asked Miles, accepting a whisky and a cigarette. 'How's Ian's burn?'

  'We've both been coughing like good-uns, and I look as if I've been shaved up the back. Not sure about the burn; you'll have to ask him. It's a good thing he's going back to college in some ways — take his mind off it. Was there anything in particular?'

  'Something has turned up. Ian doesn't know, and we don't want him to yet. Can I ask you a question? You won't see the connection and you might not want to answer it.'

  'Ask away.'

  'How well did you know his mother?'

  Martin smiled wearily and sat back. 'I can see one connection, though I doubt if you can. I knew her very well, as it happens, but I'm not his father, if that's what you're wondering.'

  'But, forgive me, you could have been?'

  Martin nodded. 'Could have been, and shouldn't mind if I were; he's a good lad. There's a job for him here when he gets his diploma. You know about Ellen and Linsey Baverstock?'

  'Yes I do.'

  'Nasty, shifty little bastard — no good in him. Everyone except Ellen could see that. I asked her to marry me after he cleared out but she wouldn't of course.'

  'Because she thought he'd come back?'

  'Yes, she was convinced of it. Either that or he'd send for her. Broke a lot of hearts, that girl did. Broke mine. Did you find the dog?'

  'Didn't Daisy tell you? He was floating in the rainwater-butt, with his head stove in.'

  'On purpose?'

  'I'd say so.'

  Martin was silent for a while. Rising, he went to the window and gazed out over the crossroads to the High Street. 'That's awful.'

  'Sorry to be brutal about it, but you see the implications?'

  'Lord yes, only too well.'

  'Bulloch, I have to ask you this. Did you kill him?'

  'Ian's dog!'

  'One can imagine having to put him out of the way, if he was keeping you from Miss Ashton. I could wish that you had.'

  'Yes, I suppose so, but I never even saw him. Ian was there first anyway.'

  'And did you write a threatening note to Ellen on her music score?'

  Martin looked surprised. 'You know about that? No, of course not. Not my style at all. If I'd thought she was carrying on with someone I'd have faced her with it.'

  Daisy got a glimpse of it and told me,' explained Miles. 'How did you find out about it?'

  'From Cecily. She asked me whom I thought might have written it.'

  'So she couldn't have recognised the handwriting. Did she have the note with her?'

  'Yes, she showed it me on Christmas Eve, after the pub.'

  'Where did she put it, after you'd seen it? Can you remember? We carried away all the papers and things that we could find last night, for safekeeping. I've had a quick look through them and I don't think it's there.'

  'She put it in a carrier bag. She had it with her in the church earlier, if it was the same one. It was on an armchair.'

  'You were there, in the church?'

  'Yes, I'm bell captain, for my sins. We were waiting to begin practice. I didn't get sight of it then, or know what it was, but I could see she was flustered about something and I saw her drop it in her bag.'

  'Do you think anyone else saw what it said, apart from Daisy?'

  'I honestly can't say. The choir were pushing past and I wasn't very close. We were just hanging around waiting. You think, presumably, that someone came looking for it, bashed the poor bloody dog and set fire to the place?'

  'I'm not so sure about the fire. They could have done, or it could have been the dog knocking over the lamp on the stair-box. Did you notice it?'

  'No I didn't, sorry. The fire gave enough light. A minute or two later and we couldn't have got up there. So the note's gone missing?'

  'Well, we can't find it. One can't even say, of course, that it's what they were looking for, but something tells me it was. Any idea who did write it?'

  'Not a clue, no.'

  'Can you hazard a guess?'

  Martin, who had been pacing, sat down again, reached f
or his glass and drained it. 'Ellen ditched me for him, you know.'

  'For Baverstock?'

  'Yes. With hindsight she must have been carrying on with him for a while; which, I might say, I never guessed. He was a miserable, pasty little specimen and it never crossed my mind. That was in early December. Assuming the thing was written during the rehearsals for Christmas, we were no longer together.'

  'So the leaver of the note must have been a third person?'

  Martin sighed and again glanced out the window. 'Felix, I loved her. I don't want to blacken her memory. She was the prettiest and liveliest girl in the village, the queen bee, and she exploited that. You weren't a village boy and mightn't understand, but everyone went with everyone then. If Ellen was stringing some other poor beggar along, I don't know who it was, and I'm not prepared to guess.'

  Miles nodded. 'All right. But what worries me, you see, is why this unknown person was so eager to get the note back. If, indeed, that's what he was after.'

  'I know what you're driving at, you think he might have murdered Baverstock. Well good riddance as far as I'm concerned. No-one is going to mourn him.'

  And what about Ian? He has to know eventually. Do I tell him I'm not going to look for his father's possible murderer? I take it you think that it was murder?'

  Martin frowned. 'No I don't think that at all. Nobody does, that I know of. Felix, are you investigating this officially?'

  'Yes I am. Sorry, I should have said. They're short-handed locally and I agreed to do it. It worries me that there's someone like that in our midst, and who knows what else he might do?'

  'I see. Well, I'd prefer it was you, if it has to be anyone, but frankly I'd rather you let it drop. Ian will be all right. He's got Daisy, and he's got me and Alma. I don't want the village set on its ear, and that's what'll happen if you start poking about. If he'd murdered Cecily it'd be different. You're not saying he did, I take it?'

  'My father says she was probably dead before the fire started. She went home early from the dance, pleading tiredness, and the evidence suggests her heart simply gave out. I'm certainly not eager to set the village on its ear, as you put it, but I'm a policeman. If something needs investigating I can't just let it drop. If I thought it was a simple burglary gone wrong, which is possible, I'd leave it to Buckett and the local station to sort out, and very glad I'd be. I don't think, however, that it was.'