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

by R. A. Bentley

  Bettishaw's substantial rectory was built in the days when the incumbent might be assumed to have servants, a spouse and a philoprogenitive disposition. The Reverend Hugh Shepherd, however, was a bachelor, sharing that rambling edifice with only his cook/housekeeper and a daily maid. Standing back from the High Street at the head of a rhododendron-lined drive, its Tudor-Gothic style and age-darkened stone, gave it, Miles always thought, a rather a sinister appearance. One expected bats.

  Mr Shepherd himself opened the door. Indeed he was already standing at it. 'Hello, Mr Felix. I saw you coming. I have just this moment returned from the surgery. I was able to speak briefly to Sir Roger, between patients. Ah, you have shoes in your pockets. I do the same myself, though I favour stout slippers. Don't worry about your boots, leave them anywhere. How very inconvenient this weather is, to be sure. Go on through to my study. You'll remember where it is, I expect. I'll join you in a moment.'

  The vicar's study had a bright, southerly aspect and a view of Bettishaw Park, framed by trees. Bettishaw Hall itself was just discernable, though probably wouldn't be in summer. A garden door led onto a small, terrace, with steps to the front of the house. It was a well-proportioned and comfortable room, furnished with several fine pieces and two substantial bookcases. Always drawn to books, Miles examined them. They were clearly intended to be read, rather than for decoration, being of all shapes and sizes, some of them rather tatty, and arranged in no particular order. There was no fiction but perhaps that lived elsewhere. As befitted an elderly country parson, local history, geology and natural science were well-represented, together, not unexpectedly, with numerous books of a religious nature. Many of these concerned other faiths, some quite obscure, an interest that was reflected in the room's other appurtenances, including some rather nice icons; a framed lithograph of Kali, colourfully trampling a victim, and even some ornaments: Lau Tzu on a water buffalo; a small stone Buddha, possibly Tibetan, doing service as a paperweight, and a statuette of Confucius, or so he assumed. He was peering at this when the vicar returned.

  'Only Qing, I'm afraid,' said Mr Shepherd. 'I've been told early nineteenth century. Sorry to have kept you.'

  'Tell me, Vicar,' asked Miles, 'do you have a favourite religion at all?'

  The vicar smiled. 'Your reputation precedes you, Mr Felix. You are teasing me. No, no favourites, beyond the obvious. What I find so fascinating are the similarities. Do sit down. Smoke?'

  Settling himself in a comfortable armchair, Miles leaned forward to accept a cigarette. 'Thanks. I'm glad you've seen my father, as I can come more quickly to the point. You've learned all about the fire?'

  'Yes, I was there myself latterly. It is most desperately tragic. Miss Ashton was, of course, a village institution, quite irreplaceable, especially to this church. I really don't know what we shall do without her. When is the inquest? I forgot to ask.'

  'It's set for Thursday at ten o'clock, in the hope that the roads will be passable by then.'

  'Only a formality, of course?' said the vicar, his expression mildly interrogative.

  'My own view, and that of my father,' said Miles carefully, 'is that Miss Ashton died of natural causes.'

  'Yes, so he said. Nothing to do with the fire, I gather.'

  'We think not; although one can't be sure,' said Miles. 'I hope you don't mind me asking, Vicar, but can we be overheard in here?'

  The vicar raised an eyebrow and went to the door. 'There is no-one outside,' he reported. 'Though my staff are perfectly trustworthy, you know. What is it you wish to tell me?'

  'I'm sure they are,' said Miles, 'but people can speak out of turn without meaning to, and this is in strictest confidence. Mr Shepherd, I'm principally here in my official role. The Chief Constable has called in Scotland Yard.'

  The vicar looked surprised. 'Oh, I see. Why is that?'

  'I'm afraid to say that the fire may have been started, or at least precipitated, by an unknown intruder, who also bludgeoned Ian Titmus's little dog to death. I found him hidden in the rainwater-butt.'

  'Oh, the poor little chap! That is very sad. You know, I'm not entirely surprised. I asked myself immediately: why would a fire start now? Glebe cottage has sat in the shadow of the church for over two hundred years, and Miss Ashton has lived there all her life. I suppose you are going to ask me who might have done such a thing?'

  'Yes, I am. One has to start somewhere, and you know your flock. Any ideas? Wild guesses gladly accepted.'

  The vicar frowned thoughtfully. 'I'm not sure, you know, that I can help you with that. We have a few wrong-uns in the village, inevitably, but everyone knows who they are. You may know them yourself. I can't really believe any of them would have done such a wicked thing, even in drink. And it usually is the drink, of course. Apart from anything else, there is a strong chance they would be caught. We are not a numerous community, and everyone knows his neighbour's business.'

  'Nevertheless someone did it, and given the business of the dog they are almost certainly local. There were no tracks this morning either coming into or going out of the village, visible to me at any rate. They might have come out of the forest or across the fields, or, it has just occurred to me, from the Hall, but none of those things seem particularly likely. I haven't had a chance to enquire about any strangers staying here.'

  'I don't know of any,' admitted the vicar. 'There was the dance band, of course, but they managed to get off all right and one assumes they got home. Do you smoke a pipe?'

  'Yes, I do,' said Miles, fishing it out.

  'Then please feel free to do so. I'll join you. The motive was robbery, presumably?'

  'One assumes theft of some kind,' agreed Miles, opening his tobacco pouch. 'But the queer thing is that nothing obvious was taken – cash and so on – although they could easily have done so. I don't suppose Miss Ashton owned anything of real value, did she? Ian thinks not.'

  The vicar shook his head. 'I don't suppose so either. She lived, I believe, on the interest from a small legacy, plus her stipend as church organist. Stipend not generous, I'm afraid.' He hesitated. 'I will say . . . how can I put this? We are a broad church here, as I'm sure you are aware, partly from my own conviction and, more pragmatically, because I don't want to lose half my congregation to the evangelicals. I don't, therefore, offer formal confession, and, frankly, no-one asks for it. For advice, however, be it a personal or religious matter, my door is always open. That is, of course, my job. Some do come to me, and I like to think I help them, but I've always suspected, you know, that as many others went to Cecily Ashton, especially among the women. Men generally try primarily to offer practical help and advice, but women seem to know better how to offer a sympathetic ear. Cecily was one such.'

  'And might have learned something not in her best interest, is that what you mean?'

  'Exactly! I'm not suggesting that I know what it might be, but one can conceive of, what shall I call them? — dark secrets. A violent marriage, a child by another man, abortion. If she was in possession of documentary evidence . . .' He shook his head. 'But perhaps my imagination is running away with me.'

  Miles, who had been unsure whether to mention the note, decided to take a chance. 'Mr Shepherd,' he said. 'Do you remember Ian's mother, Ellen?'

  'Ellen Titmus?' said the vicar. 'Certainly I do.'

  'I wonder if you can remember what sort of young woman she was. Her personality, I mean.'

  The vicar smiled in reminiscence. 'Oh, Ellen was a charming girl, very bright and lively, and quite the prettiest in the village. All the young men were in love with her, and I think she rather played them off against each other. She always seemed to be on a different one's arm anyway.'

  'Anyone in particular? Before Baverstock, I mean.'

  'In particular? Hmm. I'm not so sure I remember anyone in particular. There weren't so many young people of that age in the village – nor are there now, come to that – and they all went around together. It was rather a game of musical chairs, you know, trying each othe
r out, until eventually they paired off and married. We used to speculate about who would end up with whom. Still do. Some of the boys went away to work, of course, so there wasn't that much choice really. You must have known them though, surely? Some of them anyway.'

  Miles shook his head. 'Scarcely at all. You might remember that we only came down for the summer and Christmas in those days. My father was still at St Cuthbert's and I was at St Paul's. Apart from the lads in the hunting crowd I wouldn't have known them, and certainly not the girls. I do have some recollection of Ellen but I was only fourteen, and she would have seemed quite grown up to me. Charles would probably remember her as he's four years older.'

  The vicar nodded, relighting his pipe. 'Yes, of course. One forgets. Your father seems to have been our doctor forever. Where is this leading to exactly?'

  'I'll tell you a story,' said Miles.

  The vicar listened intently as Miles described the finding and the loss of the musical score with its threatening message.

  'Interesting,' he mused, 'the mysterious Linsey.'

  'Who disappeared.'

  'Yes he did, leaving the poor girl with child. People said, as people will, that she got what she deserved, but I don't suppose I need tell you that quite a lot of girls are pregnant when they come to the altar and no-one censures them. She could hardly have known he'd up and run away.'

  'You think that's what he did?'

  'Yes, don't you?'

  'I don't know. Why do you call him mysterious?'

  'Well, as you no doubt know, he is – assuming he lives – Sir Rupert Willoughby's nephew. He arrived from obscurity, stayed a few months and then it appears there was a row between them. Baverstock apparently packed up and cleared off, never to be seen again. It's said that Sir Rupert didn't like him – this, I must stress, is hearsay – and was glad to wash his hands of him. He did make some effort to find him, offering a reward and so on, but he wouldn't have anything to do with Ellen's claim on him. Took the view that she'd made her bed and would have to lie on it, which was extremely uncharitable, in my view. It would have done him no harm to settle a few pounds on her. I don't care for the fellow, frankly, never have, and he probably knows it.'

  'There's no doubt that Baverstock was the father?'

  'Well, we only had her word for it, but why would she lie about it? If it had been someone else, she'd have done better to name him.'

  'I can think of reasons. But coming back to the threatening note. Here is a fellow who apparently felt she was his. If it was musical chairs, perhaps someone decided the music had stopped in the wrong place?'

  'Are you suggesting Baverstock might have been murdered by this rival?'

  'Well, it's a thought, isn't it? I won't deny it's entirely speculative, but the lad did disappear. One is bound to ask, you see, why anyone would risk entering Glebe Cottage and braining the unfortunate Johann; even, perhaps, starting the fire and making it look like an accident. Whatever they were searching for, it must have been very important to them. Murder would fit rather well.'

  'And they might have felt the note incriminated them? Well I can see that, of course. But how would they have learned about it in the first place? Its continued existence, I mean.'

  'That's what we don't know. Several folk might have seen it in the church that afternoon, or Miss Ashton might have confronted them with it later. She had ample time to do so.'

  'You say it wasn't signed?'

  'My information suggests Miss Ashton didn't know who had written it and didn't recognise the writing, though the fact it was written on a carol service score ought to have provided a clue. Ellen was in the church choir, presumably?'

  'Yes, she was. Quite a nice voice, as I remember. Not as good as your sister, but useful. You'll be wanting a list of the choristers, no doubt?'

  'Do you have one from that far back?'

  'Oh yes, we'll have it somewhere. I'll get Cyril Harris to dig it out. He's our churchwarden.'

  'Will he have a list of the bellringers too, past and present?'

  'Yes, certainly. But I can tell you the names of the present ones.'

  The vicar conducted Miles to the door. 'Any thoughts about the funeral, do you know?'

  'One of us will have to talk to Ian about it. He's still a bit shocked, I'm afraid, and also in pain. He burned his arm rather badly and twisted his ankle.'

  'Poor boy, it's hard for him. He's friendly with Daisy, I believe. They're always together at any rate. They make a nice couple.'

  'Yes, he is. We're looking after him, so to say, although he's actually staying with the Bullochs.'

  'Good. Excellent. Nice to see people rallying round. He'd have been welcome to stay here, of course – we've plenty of room, goodness knows – but no-one wants to stay with the vicar do they? Especially when they've a pretty girlfriend in tow.'

  'He seems a decent sort of chap,' said Miles later. Not sanctimonious or anything. Rather broad-minded, in fact, for a cleric. He's not eager to name names, though — Ellen's boyfriends, for example.'

  'Perhaps you shouldn't expect it, dear,' said Lavinia. 'They're his flock, after all. He probably doesn't want to get them into trouble.'

  'Then he might have to abandon that position. It wasn't a ghost that killed the dog.'

  Chapter Six

  Unable to travel on from Southampton, Sergeant Rattigan had spent a chill night in a half-closed hotel, finally arriving on the footplate of the engine sent to clear the tracks.

  Miles was waiting for him on the little wooden platform at the halt. 'I salute your initiative, Teddy! Or did you just want to play trains?'

  Rattigan chuckled. 'Something everyone should do once, sir. It's surprising how much there is to it, this engine-driving. Bit mucky though; I'll need a wash. It's thawing on the coast by the way.'

  'I fancy it is here, thank goodness. However, it put me in the way of volunteering my services, so it's served it's purpose. I doubt, you know, if anyone else would have followed it up. Cobb is dead by the way.'

  'Was it cancer?'

  'Yes it was. Bit of a plod up to the farm, I'm afraid. Got your gumboots?'

  With Rattigan suitably shod they set off, Miles giving his deputy the story so far.

  'Would that constitute murder, I wonder,' said Rattigan, 'if she was frightened to death?'

  'If with malice aforethought and knowledge of her condition, I suppose it would. I don't know how you'd prove it though. First thing to do is catch the beggar and put the thumbscrews on. Then we'll see what we've got. What do you think about the note?'

  'Oh, suspicious, given the circumstances. Murdered love rivals are common enough, and it would certainly fit. Something going on there, I'd say.'

  'That's what I think. Much would depend on Baverstock's character though: honest swain or heartless seducer. If the second, he could well have cleared off. Martin Bullock clearly despised him but he's bound to be biased. By his own admission Ellen was no innocent, but she was young, and the wealthy background might have dazzled her. We'll need to canvas a few more opinions on that and also see his uncle. I'd like to know what the row was about, for one thing. However if Baverstock's still alive and we can produce him it might save a lot of wasted effort. There are a few things we might check. Did he marry? Did he enlist? The war was eight years later and he might have felt safe by then to use his own name, if he ever didn't.'

  'Which has the merit of being a fairly unusual one. Put the others on it?'

  'Yes, I think we should. Here's the police-house. I might as well introduce you to Constable Buckett while we're at it. I want to enlist him for a little job. You all right?'

  'Bit puffed, sir. How far have we come?'

  'Gentlemen! May I have your attention, please!' The stentorian demand of the landlord of the Bell had the desired effect, the lunchtime drinkers turning as one towards him. 'Now then, you all know Miles Felix, I daresay, and he'd like a word. Over to you, Inspector.'

  Miles, standing at the bar counter with Rattigan, waited
for some desultory muttering to die down while Constable Buckett remained unobtrusively at the door, ready to interview any precipitate leavers.

  'Thank you for your attention, gentlemen,' said Miles. 'You all know me I daresay, and most of you will know I'm a detective inspector of police, based at Scotland Yard. This gentleman is my deputy, Detective Sergeant Rattigan. This isn't our manor, of course, but the Yard gets everywhere, and yesterday I was instructed officially to investigate the sad death of Miss Cecily Ashton, and the destruction by fire of her cottage. That tragedy, of course, you will all know about, but there's a disturbing aspect to it of which you will not be aware.

  'As far as we can tell, Miss Ashton died of natural causes, though one can never be entirely sure of that. We would probably have put the fire down to an unfortunate accident, but when looking around the burned-out cottage I discovered the body of the family dog, Johann, floating in the rainwater butt. His skull had been smashed in.' He paused for a moment to let this information take effect. 'Some of you will grasp immediately the implications of that, while others may need to think about it. Suffice it to say, he didn't put himself in there. Leaving the dog in the butt for safekeeping I went to speak to someone about it. I returned a few minutes later to find it gone. Someone had taken it away. That strongly suggests the perpetrator is a local man, and one, moreover, who wished to conceal the evidence of his crime.

  'In order to kill the dog, that person must have entered Glebe cottage, and we believe that he stole something while he was there. I don't propose to name that item at the moment. However, I can tell you that its theft carries serious implications. I naturally wish to speak to that person and I'm asking for your help in finding him. Some of you may know or suspect who he is, and if you do, I'd like to hear about it, or any other information you can give us about this unpleasant crime. You might also tell your friends and neighbours. Anything you or they can tell me will be treated in the strictest confidence, or you can write to me, or to Constable Bucket, anonymously and place it in the police-house letterbox. This has always been a safe and peaceful village and I need hardly tell you I've a personal interest in keeping it that way. Has anyone got any questions or observations?' He paused and looked around. 'No? All right. Then thank you for your valuable time. And if anyone would like another drink they may have one on me. Just the one, mind! Put it on the slate Archie.'