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

by R. A. Bentley

  'Not often,' said Gabriel. 'We keeps the old tyres and scrap out here.'

  'So I see. Where do you keep the key?'

  'In the door.'

  'Hmm. So no-one comes in this way? Of a morning, say.'

  'No, never.'

  'Remind me. Where can you get to, apart from Long Lane?'

  'Nowhere, except our yard.'

  'Well, I'd best look. Don't touch the key until I've checked for prints.'

  The back door gave onto a covered space filled with automotive junk, followed by a narrow L-shaped passageway. To their right was the six foot high wall of the smithy's yard, its tall, close-boarded back gate bolted on the inside, and to their left was what Miles correctly identified as the gable wall of the village carpenter's workshop. Ahead was the wall of Miss Pruitt's garden. Turning the corner revealed the carpenter's own narrow yard and a further turn brought them down the side of the school playground to Long Lane.'

  'Nowhere much to hide before the lane,' observed Gabriel, 'unless they went over Beatrice's wall or the school railings.'

  'I'll have to question the carpenter, just in case. He's a Harris, isn't he?'

  'George, yes. But he won't have seen anything; he was in the Bell with us.'

  Closed for the afternoon, the public bar of the Bell retained its welcome warmth and a strong redolence of beer. Archie Kitcher, distractedly swabbing the bar top, was gazing sympathetically at Josie as she toyed with her brandy. She remained very white and shocked-looking. The vicar and Lavinia were sitting with her.

  'Where is Miss Pruitt?' asked Miles.

  'She went home.'

  'All right, I'll see her shortly. Are you able to tell us what happened, Josie?'

  Josie shook her head. 'I don't know what happened. I stopped for some petrol, but Bill's car was parked at the pump. I waited for a while, then went inside to look for him. I thought they might be gassing.'

  'Where was he?'

  'Where you found him.'

  'Anyone else in there?'

  'I don't think so, unless they were in the office. I got frightened and ran out.'

  'And bumped into me,' said Lavinia, putting a comforting arm around her.

  'And while you were waiting your turn, did you see anyone else go in or come out?'

  'No, but I was sitting in the truck, so they might have.'

  'How long were you there, do you think?'

  'Three of four minutes, I suppose.'

  'Mother, what about you? Did you see anyone?'

  'I don't think so, but I was looking at Glebe Cottage latterly. In fact, I was just about to cross over and see what they'd been doing there when I saw Josie in distress.'

  'You, Mr Shepherd?'

  The vicar shook his head. 'No, no-one. Miss Pruitt and I had just come down from the rectory. We saw Mrs Clement run out and went to help.'

  'And I told them what had happened,' said Josie, 'and they went straight into the garage.'

  'Yes, they came in while I was there,' said Lavinia. 'I told them I was going to telephone to your father and not to touch anything.'

  'I was only in there for a moment or two,' said the vicar, 'then I came out to see if Mrs Clement was all right.'

  'Wasn't there anyone serving?' asked Rattigan, surprised.

  'If there's no-one there, people help themselves and leave the money in the office,' explained Miles. Did anyone come out of the garage after you found him, Josie?'

  Josie shook her head. 'I'm quite sure they didn't! I'd have been terrified.'

  'No-one came out,' confirmed the vicar.

  'Did you have much to do with him?' asked Lavinia. 'Bill, I mean. You said you were friends.'

  'We were at school together,' said Josie. 'We were in the same year. We don't see him much but he pops in sometimes. I walked out with him a few times when we were youngsters. He used to deliver milk to the Hall.' All the while she had been weeping steadily, dabbing at her tears with a damp handkerchief. 'Who on earth would want to kill him?'

  'Here, have this one,' said Lavinia.

  'I can't keep taking your hankies.'

  'It's mine,' said Miles. 'Was he married?'

  Josie smiled her thanks. 'No, never has been. He lived with his father. He was a little bit peculiar, you know.'

  'He was peculiar but you walked out with him?' said Lavinia, raising an eyebrow.

  'Not that sort of peculiar, more innocent. What's that word?

  'Naive?' suggested the vicar.

  'Yes, sort of. He didn't seem to understand people very well. Still didn't, really. He was quite nice-looking though, in those days.'

  'Did you work at the Hall, then?' said Miles. 'I didn't know that.'

  'Yes, I was a maid there until we married.'

  They returned again to the garage, discovering Gabriel pinning up a handwritten notice. With him was Constable Buckett and an ancient, besmocked farmhand whom Miles vaguely remembered from his childhood.

  'Hello, Buckett. Oh good, you've got the stretcher. Don't go away Gabriel, we won't be a minute.

  'Sorry I was out, sir,' said Buckett, following him inside. 'Someone's been poaching deer, or so the verderer reckons. Don't know why they always thinks it's us.' He peered into the pit. 'Poor beggar. I was only talking to him yesterday.'

  'Any enemies?'

  'Shouldn't have thought so, sir. Queer sort of chap, used to quote the Bible at you. I always reckoned he was a bit soft in the head. His old dad bossed him about something terrible. I'd feel quite sorry for him.'

  'Ronald Adams got into a fight with him at the dance.'

  'Did he now? I didn't know that. Do you want me to find out why?'

  'Yes, but be discreet.' Miles paused to consider. 'No, on second thoughts, don't actually ask about it. If someone tells you or you hear something, well and good.'

  'All right, sir. I'll keep my ears open. What do we do about shifting him? Your dad's down at the surgery.'

  Miles returned outside. 'Can we recruit you gents as stretcher-bearers?'

  Gabriel nodded. 'Least I can do, seein' it's my pit he went into.'

  The besmocked one nodded affably. 'Reckon so,' he said.

  'Sam Wheeler, isn't it?' said Miles. 'Sure you can manage? He's big chap.'

  The old man twinkled, gratified to be remembered. 'Half on 'im ent.'

  'Thanks then, that's appreciated. See the doors are locked when you go, won't you, Gabriel? Not that I expect to find anything. We'll need to put in hand some nasty cleaning up too.'

  Gabriel shook his head. 'Me and Stan'll do that. Won't be worse than Flanders.'

  'Stout fellow. Wait until we've finished in there though. We must see Miss Pruitt and then his father. Buckett, could you go door knocking? Find out if anyone saw anything, even if it's just passing vehicles or other villagers going by. Get the times. You'd best do Long Lane as well. And look in Miss Pruit's garden, just in case. And keep an eye out for the weapon, possibly a hammer of some sort. It's not out of the question he took it with him. Did you want to speak to me, Vicar?'

  'If it's not too much trouble,' said the vicar, who had been politely hovering. 'Might I be permitted to, er . . .'

  'Why yes, of course. I'm so sorry. Whenever it's convenient for you. Or you might prefer to see him at the surgery.'

  'I think now, if you don't mind.'

  'Pity we can't shut these flippin' piggies up,' said Gabriel, eyeing balefully a row of inquisitive snouts. 'They're gettin' on my nerves.'

  'It's all right,' said Josie, coming up to them. 'I'll take them home and Bert can deliver them. I don't think I can face the drive just now.'

  'Are you sure you'll be all right that far,' asked Miles.

  'Oh, yes. Your mum's coming with me.'

  'Petrol?'

  'Goodness, yes. I'd forgotten.'

  'I'll move Bill's car,' said Gabriel.

  Through the window they could see Miss Pruitt rising to let them in. She remained as apparently calm as she'd been earlier. 'I was coming home,' she said. 'Mr
Shepherd wanted petrol and I remained to talk to him while he waited. We spoke to Ronald Adams and Gabriel as well; they were going into the Bell. Then a minute or two later Josie came and told us what had happened and we went into the garage to see. Your mother was in there. I'm sorry if I seemed vague. It is most upsetting.'

  'Yes, of course. Can you tell me what the time was, when you first encountered Mrs Clement?'

  Miss Pruitt looked doubtful. 'I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps twenty past two.'

  'Weren't you afraid to be in the garage by yourself, after the vicar and my mother had left?'

  'I never thought of it. I wanted to do something for him but I didn't know what. I'm a little ashamed of that.'

  'There was nothing you could have done, I'm afraid. Did you know Mr Rowsell?'

  'Oh yes, quite well. I taught him as a child, and he would call on me sometimes, as an adult.'

  'You were friends?'

  'Yes, in a way. He was lonely, I think, and I was sorry for him.'

  'Why would that have been?'

  Miss Pruitt smiled sadly. 'He was rather a difficult person. He had a most severe and inflexible religious faith, intensely moralistic and censorious. It was his whole life. Had he lived in a town he would probably have gravitated to some extreme sect. As it was, he had no-one to share it with.'

  'It was kind of you to take the trouble with him.'

  'It wasn't much trouble. He was interesting, in small doses. They are all interesting, in their own ways. All my boys and girls.'

  'Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?'

  'I can certainly imagine him upsetting people. I can't name anyone.'

  Solicitous of his new car, Miles negotiated with care the largely single-track lane to Long Bettishaw, noting as he went the muddy verges that stood duty for passing places. Hedges of naked blackthorn and hazel bounded winter-bleak fields, and always there was the forest, here coming down to the road in places.

  'Bit creepy, woods can be,' said the city-bred Rattigan gazing into its primaeval depths. 'What would they fall out about, do you suppose? Rowsell and Adams?'

  'It's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it? Though he'd probably just say it was the drink.'

  'It'll be that if nothing else.'

  'Quite so. Anyway, it's hardly likely to have been Ronald, you know. A dozen or more witnesses to his serving behind the bar and only missing for a minute or two for a leak.'

  'He could still have done it. The gents' entrance is on that side, so he could've seen Rowsell's car and taken a chance. A minute or two to do the deed and back in his place. I don't suppose anyone was holding a stopwatch to him.'

  'Well, it's possible, but it'd be darned risky. If Dad is right about the clotting, he had about ten minutes before Josie turned up. Maybe less.'

  'But that applies to any of them. Mrs Clement, then?'

  'She might have had the opportunity,' admitted Miles, recalling a recent lapse of judgement. 'Can't really believe it though. Bert, perhaps.'

  'Could be Clement. Came down with her, followed Rowsell in, did the deed, ran out and hid in the back of the truck. We never looked in there.'

  Miles chuckled grimly. 'Amongst the piggies, where no-one would notice the difference. Well, it would work, I suppose. We'd best check his movements. Hello, there's Stan.'

  The mechanic wobbled to a halt on his bicycle. 'Hello, Mr Felix. What brings you out here?'

  'You'd best get in for a minute,' said Miles. 'I'll back into that field gate.'

  Stan was shocked to hear the news. 'I ought to have covered the pit,' he admitted. 'Though by what you tell me, it wouldn't have helped him much. Blimey, I only saw him an hour ago! I dropped off a couple of churns I'd mended for them and stayed for a cuppa. Then he went for some petrol, poor beggar.'

  'Will his father be there, do you suppose?'

  'Probably. He never goes far.'

  'Can you tell us how to get there?'

  'About fifty yards on your left. Quite a long track down to it. Mind the dogs.'

  The house, when they came to it, could scarcely have been less than two hundred years old, while looking unlikely to survive another decade. With its sunken, mossy thatch and decaying cob walls, it threatened momently to return to the earth whence it came. Around it was a tumbledown farmyard, ankle-deep in mud and bovine ordure and guarded by barking, leaping dogs. They were somewhat relieved when Mr Rowsell senior arrived to call them off. Bent with age but far from frail-looking, he had a belligerent air about him that didn't bode well for their interview. 'Wadyerwant?' he demanded. 'Geddown yer noisy bastards! Heel, I say! Ent no tiddies, if that's what yer after.'

  Miles introduced himself. 'I should like a word with you, Mr Rowsell. I have some bad news, I'm afraid.'

  Once they'd crossed the threshold the old man became more accommodating, leading them to a dank and smoke-blackened kitchen that a mediaeval scullion might have recognised.

  'What's all this then? That useless son o' mine bin up to mischief?'

  'Mr Rowsell, I'm sorry to tell you that your son is dead.'

  Mr Rowsell gazed at them doubtfully. 'You sure you got the right fella? He wur all right this morning.'

  'Mr William Rowsell of Brook Farm, Long Bettishaw?'

  'Well that's him all right. What did he die of?'

  'I'm afraid, Mr Rowsell, that he was almost certainly murdered.'

  The farmer's expression didn't significantly alter. 'Murdered? How so?'

  'An unknown person struck him from behind with a weapon of some sort. It was in the village garage, where we believe he was paying for his petrol. He died at the scene.'

  Mr Rowsell appeared not to assimilate this. 'My petrol, you mean. You related to the doc?'

  'Doctor Felix is my father. Mr Rowsell, did your son have any enemies, anyone who might have done this?'

  'Shouldn't think so. Who'd that be?'

  'I don't know, I'm asking you. Anyone he might have fallen out with recently?'

  'He never hardly went nowhere. Spent a lot o' time in his room with his nose in his Bible.'

  'He was religious?'

  'Didn't think o' nothin' else. Church every Sunday reg'ler. Bloody nonsense. When yer dead yer dead. He went ter thik dance though. Goes every year.'

  'The Boxing Day dance?'

  The farmer nodded. 'Didn't say so, but he wore his Sunday suit so I guessed it. What happens now?'

  'We need you to formally identify him.'

  'Gotta hitch up the cart then. Legs ain't so good these days.'

  'We'll take you back with us if you like, and then you'll be able to bring your car home.'

  'Can't drive.'

  'All right. Come back with us and we'll sort something out. Can you tell me where you've been since about one o'clock today?'

  'Here. Why?'

  'See anyone?

  'Yes, Stan Bush. Stopped for a cup of tea.'

  'And did your son go to the garage at a regular time each week, or just when you needed a fill-up?'

  'No particular time, that I'm aware of.'

  'When did he leave here today?'

  'Hour or so ago, just after Stan come.'

  'Did he say how long he'd be?'

  'Naw.'

  'Did he always tell you where he was going?'

  'Not always. He wur never gone long anyways, apart from doin' the round.'

  'Did he ever go out in the evening, for a drink, say?'

  'Didn't drink. He used ter go to Southampton occasional, to the pictures or music hall I s'pose.'

  'Did he go with anyone? A lady friend perhaps?'

  'Didn't seem interested in women.'

  'Not ever?'

  The old man shrugged. 'Had a couple when he wur younger. Never seen one since.'

  'He brought them here? Can you remember who they were?'

  The old man looked defensive. 'Why shouldn't he? We got a parlour. Can't recall their names. There wur a big, strong-lookin' one – her'd a done well enough – an' a little skinny one.
Pretty as a picture she wur, but no good as a farmer's wife an' I told un so. Then he seemed to lose interest, or more likely they did. Prob'ly the preachin' got 'em down. Got me down right enough.'

  'The little one wasn't named Ellen, by any chance?'

  'Dunno, mid a-bin.'

  'All right, sir,' said Miles, rising. 'Before we go, we'd like to see your son's room. If you want to get ready while we're doing it, we'll take you back to the village.'

  'What d'yer want ter see his room for?'

  'Something might give us a clue to who killed him.'

  Bill Rowsell's room was small and dark, the already low ceiling sagging alarmingly towards the middle. The furniture consisted of a narrow bed, a single wardrobe, two painted Windsor chairs – one doing service as a bedside table – and a battered oak writing desk. Apart from a rag rug by the bed the floor was of bare boards. The room below could be seen through the cracks between them. There was a small shelf containing a Bible and a half-dozen other books of a devotional nature, and on the grubby walls, a faded photo of a woman in perhaps her thirties, a palm crucifix and a framed print of Holman Hunt's "The Light of the World."

  'Mother, I suppose,' said Rattigan, gazing at the portrait. 'Not the life and soul, by the look of her.'

  'Depressed, probably,' said Miles, searching the desk. 'Not much here. Writing paper and so on. Hmm, a diary. Just appointments and things by the look of it. However, we'll keep it I think. Hello, what's this? Addressed to me, Teddy! Unfinished by the look of it. Into my pocket with that.'

  Back in the village, they watched the old farmer's car turn away round the corner, Stan Bush driving and his much travelled bicycle piled in behind.

  'I expect he loved him really,' grunted Rattigan cynically.

  'He'll miss him when it sinks in,' said Miles, 'probably at early milking. Let's go and see Shutler.'

  Clad in a filthy overall, the blacksmith was already back at work, completing the shoeing of a handsome black gelding. 'There's a good chap,' he said, easing his back. 'You can go home now.'

  'This is Bulloch's hunter, isn't it?' said Miles.

  'Tis, zur,' said the man in charge of it.

  'Nice beast. Where's the boss at the moment?'

  'Down bottom end by now. He wur in about the horse, then drove there. Any message for him?'