'Shutler is the village capitalist,' Miles told Rattigan. 'Blacksmith and garage proprietor.'
'He's our baritone. Cracking good voice,' said Harris. 'Hasn't changed much either. Some folk don't, do they? Still takes the same size in trousers. And those two are the Foley brothers who farm down in Nether. They don't sing now. In fact, you seldom see them in church that I've noticed. Lots of backsliding in these days, unfortunately. I blame the cheap novels. Our Effie's as bad; always got her nose in some daft nonsense. They sell well, mind. And there's Ronald Adams, looking like a schoolboy. Well, he wasn't much more than one. Very useful tenor, he is, when he can be bothered to turn up. We're a pretty strong bunch in most respects. Your sister particularly.'
'Thank you, I'll tell her that. What about Martin Bulloch?'
'No, he's bells. There's another list for that. Tell you what, take what you want home with you and bring it back when you're finished. I ought to get back.'
That evening, they sat over coffee and studied the lists and photographs.
'She was such a pretty girl,' said Lavinia. 'Very bright and vivacious. You can quite see why she was the village sweetheart.'
'You can see her in Ian a little,' said Connie. 'Around the eyes. How terribly sad it was.'
'And there's Josie,' said Miles. 'Comely enough and a nice figure. Why on earth did she take up with Bert?'
'Looks aren't everything, dear,' said Lavinia.
'What else has he got then?'
'A hundred pigs?' suggested Connie.
'A hundred! He's never got that many.'
'That's what he told me.'
'He was boasting, trying to impress you. Doubt it's fifty.'
'They only had a dozen or so when they married,' said Roger, 'so it can't have been that. The Clements always seemed to me like a bunch of hillbillies, just rubbing along. The old man was a bit of a character. Dungarees all summer and a disgusting old army greatcoat all winter. Looked like he slept in it. Oh yes, and a topper, which Bert still wears. Not sure if it's the same one.'
'A topper!' said Rattigan.
'Yes, always, very old and battered, like something out of Punch. It was his father who had the old railway carriage dragged up here. Quite an event by all accounts. They cadged the Bullochs' traction engine for the job and even that struggled. The whole village turned out to help push. It was more a sort of general smallholding when we arrived – chickens, a cow or two, the pigs – mostly for themselves, I think. There was a bit of fuss about poaching, I remember, though nothing was ever proven.'
'I've always thought it was probably Josie behind the pigs,' said Lavinia. 'She's got a head on her shoulders, that girl. By the time we came to live here permanently they'd got those portable sties all over South Field and had begun to build the house, though they didn't move into it until quite recently. The war helped, of course. It came just right for them.'
'But Bert's still the pigman?' said Rattigan.
Roger chuckled. 'Oh yes, he does all the work. And she won't let him indoors until he's washed and changed, poor chap. Very houseproud is Josie.'
'I make that five male choristers of about the right age, with four surviving, plus Bullock, bells.' said Miles, returning them to the point. 'Fortunately there's no-one between the youngsters we're interested in and those aged thirty or more at the time.'
'So now we hope they were all seen leaving the dance at twelve, bar one?' said Rattigan.
'That's probably too much to hope for, but we have to start somewhere. Can anyone confirm to me that the following were there, preferably towards the end? I'll need to cross-check, obviously. Bulloch was there, at least until ten or so. Gabriel, anybody?'
'He was certainly there,' said the Lavinia. 'I can't answer to all night though. And, of course, we left early.'
'That's the trouble. What about Ronald Adams? Was he there when we left?'
'I spoke to Marie Shutler fairly late,' said Roger, 'though I didn't see Gabriel. Ronald I noticed when we came out, being escorted home.'
'Drunk?'
'As a lord. They were more or less carrying him.'
'He's probably out of it then. Question mark over Shutler and possibly Bullock, though it can hardly have been him. That leaves the Foley brothers. Does anybody know them?'
'They were there,' said Roger. 'Propping up the bar mostly. They're both single,' he added, by way of explanation.
'What's wrong with them?' said Connie.
'Nothing, necessarily,' said Lavinia. 'It's often the case with farmers. It's a hard life for a woman, you know, especially around here.'
'And getting harder,' said Roger. 'It's fortunate they're mostly freehold or I could see bankruptcies ahead.'
'A chorister is starting to look a bit unlikely perhaps?' said Rattigan.
Miles gave a discouraged nod. 'Yes it is, although they were on the spot if they wanted to slip out for a few minutes, which might be all it took. I'd best have a chat with Shutler, for completeness. Back to the drawing board, I'm afraid.' He stood up. 'Where's Daisy, still in the kitchen?'
'Surrounded by bits of paper,' said Lavinia. 'I didn't call them in as we were talking about Ellen.'
'Well I'd quite like a word with Ian before he goes. Maybe I'll just stick my nose round the door; they can always send me packing if I'm not wanted.'
Daisy and Ian were sitting at the kitchen table, the contents of Cecily Ashton's writing desk arranged upon it in neat piles.
'Just wondered how you're getting on,' said Miles. 'Tell me to push off if I'm not wanted. How's the arm, Ian?'
Ian glanced down at his sling. 'It's all right thanks,' he said. 'We've just about finished this lot, I think. I've kept a few odds and ends but most of it can go.'
'It's mostly old receipts and things,' said Daisy, and it's not all right; he's just being brave.'
Ian shrugged and winced. 'It looks a bit nasty but it's healing, I think. Your dad's going to dress it for me before I go. We've found the deeds of the cottage and the name of Auntie's solicitor. He'll have her will, I expect. At least, I hope he has, as we can't find one here. Thanks for fetching all this back, by the way, especially the money and bank book. It was really appreciated.'
'While I think of it,' said Daisy, 'Reuben came to the door. He wants to see you.'
'Ah, good, I want to see him. Ian, you don't have any idea, I suppose, what the intruder might have been after or who he might have been? You don't have to talk about it just at the minute if you don't want to.'
'I've told him about the note,' said Daisy, a little apologetically.
'I'm not upset about that, you know,' said Ian. 'It was kind of you to think I might be, but I've always known about my mother; it's not as if it adds anything much. It might have bothered Auntie, though, because she believed my father was murdered and that could have been a clue. She didn't mention it to me, unfortunately.' He paused thoughtfully. 'I can see, of course, why you'd want to investigate it, because the murderer could still be here in the village, but if it was a fight between rivals or something I shouldn't want him to hang for it, not after all these years. He might have a wife and family of his own now, and it's not their fault. I know it's the law and everything but it seems wrong.'
'Removing for a moment my policeman's hat, I have some sympathy with that,' said Miles, 'But what if it was the intruder who caused your cottage to burn down?'
Ian sighed. 'I don't know. I suppose that would be different. He killed my dog and he may have killed Auntie. But it mightn't have been the same person who wrote the note, might it?'
'So if I were to ask who you think it was that walked in . . .'
'I truly have no idea. There's no point in guessing.' he indicated the remaining papers. 'There's nothing here that anyone would break in for, that I can see.'
'I was going to mention Reuben,' said Rattigan as they crossed the yard. 'He's often over at Mrs Piper's of an evening – seems quite at home there – and I've got to know him a bit. Sensible sort of bloke and easy to t
alk to, being a Londoner.'
'Compared with our local hayseeds, do you mean?'
'Well, no, I'm not suggesting —'
Miles chuckled. 'It's all right, Teddy. I know exactly what you mean. I feel it myself to some extent, and I've lived here half my life, off and on. You don't always catch the nuances, and neither do they. What did he have to say?'
'We were talking about the fire, of course, and as he drinks at the Bell I asked him if he'd heard anything. He hedged a bit and finally said he was minded to tell you a thing or two but it was awkward for him. He's accepted here well enough, he says, but doesn't want to blot his copybook, there being nowhere else he can go for a drink. I can quite understand his dilemma. Their knowing he works here doesn't help, of course.'
'Well let's hope he hasn't changed his mind.'
Reuben's tiny cottage betrayed everywhere the hand of Lavinia Felix, from the curtains and furniture-covers to the decor. A dismantled rifle, rabbit traps and a caged ferret provided a masculine counterpoint. Given the choice between tea and beer they'd chosen the latter.
'Not keeping you from Janet Piper, I hope,' teased Miles.
Reuben grinned. 'You'll have to do better'n that, sir. Now what do you want to know?'
'It's more what you feel you can tell us. An unbiased view would be very welcome. You can be sure it won't go any further.'
'I don't actually know anything,' warned Reuben, 'But like I was saying to Teddy, there's an atmosphere. Has been since you give your little speech after the fire. If I had to put a name to it, I'd say they was frightened. Nervous anyway.'
'What, all of them?'
'Yes, I'd say so, even Archie Kitcher. Frightened for themselves or frightened for someone else. And what you might find out.'
'Any idea why?'
'No, none. But there's something I reckon they all know that I don't. They don't talk about it but you know it's there.'
'Can you hazard a guess?'
'Not really. Maybe they know who walked into Glebe and maybe they don't. Or it could be something else entirely. Whatever it is, they don't want you to know, I reckon.'
'Well that's useful,' said Miles, 'if very disturbing. I won't ask you to poke around, obviously, but if you ever get a clue to it, maybe some chance remark, I'd be glad to hear of it.'
'Yes, all right, sir. I'll tell you another thing, though. I was at the dance —'
'With Janet?'
'Yes, with Janet,' said Reuben longsufferingly, 'And on the next table was Ronald Adams with Shutler and Bulloch and their wives. Minnie was behind the bar, of course. Then Bill Rowsell comes over and starts talking to them, very earnest-like, leaning on the table, and Adams suddenly flies into a rage, gets up and starts shoving at him. Finally he hits him, sending him backwards onto the dance-floor. That's when he come flying past you and Miss Connie, sir. And Martin Bulloch starts to get up too but Shutler claps a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back down and they seemed to sort of act as if it was nothing to do with them, which it mightn't have been for aught I know, but I think it was, because they looked pretty worried and even the wives looked worried. I couldn't hear what they was saying, unfortunately.'
'Interesting! We must have a word with Mr Rowsell, I think.'
Chapter Seven
Set for ten o'clock in the village hall, the inquest on Cecily Ashton went off without incident, a verdict of natural causes being arrived at, largely on the basis of Dr Felix's testimony regarding the time and manner of death. This made subsequent events, however dramatic, irrelevant to the proceedings, and a quiet word with the coroner ensured that the fire was touched upon only with regard to its possible effects on the deceased.
'I'm a little concerned that there wasn't a copy of the will,' said Miles as they returned to the village after luncheon. 'Most folk have one. However, I can't imagine what use it would be to anyone else. I told Ian he ought to contact the solicitor as soon as he can. It's a bit awkward with his being under twenty-one. I must speak to Bullock about it, and also about the funeral. He's an interesting character; I must introduce you to him. I learned from my mother last night that he married his wife because she'd been left a war widow by a friend of his. Already had a small child and another on the way.'
'Noble of him. Involved in all this, do you think?'
'Who knows? If Baverstock was murdered and the motive was jealousy you can say that he had one. At any rate, I'll wager he knows more than he's letting on.'
'As with Pruitt, and possibly Shepherd,' mused Rattigan. 'And if Reuben is right, the regulars at the Bell too.'
'Quite so. Half the village, in fact. Maybe all of it. This is going to be difficult.'
They drew up outside Glebe Cottage, its ruined upper storey now hidden under protective tarpaulins.
'That's new,' said Miles. 'Presumably Bulloch's doing. I wonder if he's going to pay for the rebuilding?' He glanced at his watch. 'Shutler's probably lunching in the pub. They'll be closing shortly, so we might as well wait.'
'Hello, what's all that about?' frowned Rattigan.
Parked across the road, its squealing cargo disturbing the lunchtime peace of the High Street, was the pig-farm's mud-spattered truck, while standing by it was Josie Clement being violently sick in the gutter. Hovering in embarrassed attendance was the Reverend Hugh Shepherd.
'I'm sorry,' said Josie. 'You'd think it wouldn't bother me, what with the pigs.' And she started once again to heave.
'It's Bill Rowsell, in the garage,' offered the vicar. 'Lady, er, that is to say, your mother, is telephoning to Sir Roger.'
Recently constructed of green-painted corrugated iron, the village garage dominated both the adjacent Inn and the ancient smithy to which it was attached. In addition to the pig farm's truck there was an unfamiliar car by the petrol pump and the vicar's Model T a little further down the road. Inside were a couple of other vehicles with their bonnets up. Neither of them was over the open inspection pit, on the edge of which crouched Miss Pruitt, looking down. Following her gaze they discovered Bill Rowsell, in tweed suit and leggings, awkwardly prone on the pit's narrow floor. The back of his head, conveniently illuminated by a shaft of winter sunlight, was scarlet with blood, and a spreading pool of it glistened and beaded on the oil-stained concrete.
'Check the office,' said Miles, descending the steps. 'And the back door. It's behind it. Are you all right, Miss Pruitt?'
Miss Pruitt appeared calm enough but her expression was of the utmost desolation. 'Will this never end?' she said.
'What do you mean?' asked Miles. But she didn't reply.
Lavinia appeared, silhouetted in the doorway. 'Oh good, you've found him. I've just telephoned to your father.'
'Is he dead?' said Josie from the threshold. 'I can't look.'
'No, there's a pulse, I think.'
'Oh thank God!'
'What's all this, then?' demanded Roger Felix, bustling in with his bag. Scrambling down beside Miles he crouched stiffly over the stricken farmer. 'Hmm, nasty,' he said. 'Lavinia, take Josie next door, sit her down and give her a brandy. Miss Pruitt, I think you should go as well.'
'Come along Beatrice,' said the vicar, drawing her away.
'The back door was open,' reported Rattigan. 'It leads out to the lane that runs over the crossroads. Couldn't see anyone but they could be anywhere by now.'
Gabriel joined them. 'Bloody 'ell! He made a job of that, didn't he?'
'Where's Stan?' asked Miles.
'Over to Long, takin' a car back. Darned dangerous leaving this thing uncovered. I'm always tellin' 'im.'
'The car was over the pit, presumably. When did he leave?'
'Oh, a good hour ago. I'd have thought he'd be back.'
'Were you here, when it happened?'
'No, I've bin next door, havin' a bite.'
'Who is it?' said Ronald Adams.
'It's Bill Rowsell.'
'Oh,' said Ronald, retreating slightly.
'The doctor sighed and stood up. 'Gone, I'm afraid.'
'I told him to cover it,' repeated Gabriel mournfully.
'He didn't get that falling in,' Rattigan told him. 'He was walloped.'
'Yes, I agree,' said Roger. 'Perhaps a hammer, or something of the sort.'
'What, murdered, do you mean?' said Gabriel. 'Bloody 'ell!'
'Not much doubt about that,' said Miles, accepting a hand-up. 'Gabriel, I'm sorry but we're going to have to close the garage for a while. You can use the pumps if you can arrange for folk to pay in the smithy. Dad, could you bring his cap, please? We'd best have his keys too; we'll need to move his car.'
The rest of the Bell's patrons were now gathered outside, together with what seemed like half the village. They fell back to a respectful distance as the cap was examined in the better light of the entrance.
'Not much blood on it,' said Rattigan. 'Must have come off when he fell in.'
'There's plenty in the pit,' said the doctor. 'Adams, would you mind cutting along to the surgery and fetching the stretcher? It's propped up behind the consulting room door. Here's the key.'
Ronald looked hunted. 'It wasn't me done it!'
'Who says it was?' said Miles.
'Well, we had that fight. But I was behind the bar, except for a pee.'
'Then you've nothing to worry about, have you? Go and get the stretcher, there's a good chap. And perhaps you'd knock up Constable Buckett while you're there. Oh and tell them next door.'
'Take their names, sir?' asked Rattigan.
'Yes, if you will. Find out who was in the Bell, when they arrived, and if at any point they left and returned. Just for elimination purposes, gentlemen. We're not accusing you of anything. How long, Dad?'
'Since he was hit? Less than fifteen minutes, probably. No obvious clotting.'
'From about two-ten, then?'
'Yes, but it's only an estimate.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'm supposed to be at the surgery. Call me if you need me.'
'Let's have a look at the back door,' said Miles.
The half-glazed door was at the end of a short corridor created by the side of the office and the back of the garage. 'How often do you use it?' asked Miles, pushing it fully open.
A Country Way of Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 4) Page 9
