They went back to the car.
'All right, what have we got?' said Miles, settling behind the wheel. 'Goes into garage behind Rowsell, whacks him on the occiput and rolls him into the pit. That's probably a given, unless something went on we haven't even considered. Might have had help, might not. Might have a suitable weapon already with him when he enters. That's something we've learned anyway, assuming Stan's right about his tools. Either Mr Murderer escapes out the back way or he comes out the front and makes himself scarce pretty quickly. All this happens not more than twenty minutes before we arrive, because of the blood not yet clotting. Oh yes, I'd forgotten. Dad said it wasn't a very vigorous blow or it would have killed him outright. Might suggest a weaker sort of chap, or even a woman.'
'He might just have been falling over as he was struck, or heard something and shied away. What about the people who were around at the time?'
'I suppose in theory it could have been any of them, and not one has been entirely straight with us in all this except Adams, whom we haven't yet questioned.'
'In that case we can't really wash him out,' insisted Rattigan.
'No, all right. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if we can wash anyone out, although instinct tells me it wasn't Ronald. He's never entirely sober for one thing, and would probably have given himself away. Also, Gabriel claims to have been with him while he was outside, and Kitcher backed him up, as did the vicar.'
'That's why my money's on Adams.'
'Where did he get the weapon from, then?'
'If they're all lying, who knows?'
Miles sighed heavily.
Parking the car, they mounted the broad steps to Bettishaw Hall's front door. Before the muffled jangling of the doorbell had died away the butler was opening the door to them.
'I regret,sir, neither Sir Rupert nor Her Ladyship is at home.'
'That's rather fortuitous,' said Miles, 'since it's you we've come to see. Mr Jackson, isn't it?'
Introductions being effected, Jackson ushered them into a cupboard-like office off the entrance hall. 'Do sit down, sirs. Is it about this dreadful murder?'
Miles politely insisted the man take a seat, parking himself against the door frame. 'We're investigating the murder, yes. But first I'd like you to cast your mind back some twenty years; to the day, in fact, when Linsey Baverstock left here. I understand you were the only one to see him go?'
'Yes, sir, I believe I was,' said Jackson, appearing unsurprised by the question.
'And you never saw him again?'
'That's correct, sir, and nor did anyone else. Or if they did, they've never spoken of it.'
'What did he say to you, when he went. Can you remember?'
'Perfectly, sir. He said, "See you later, Jackson."'
'Is that all?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You didn't ask when "later" might be?'
'It was hardly my place to do that, sir. I should also say there was nothing furtive about it. We knew he'd been packing of course, and we knew the happy couple would not be returning to the Hall, so his effects would have had to be moved at some point.'
'Do you know where they planned to live?'
'We were not told. We assumed Glebe Cottage.'
'I suppose you would have. Was there anything to suggest he expected to return that evening? Did he take his shaving things and so on?'
'Yes, he did, but there remained two cases of clothes and oddments, including all his evening wear. If I'd considered the matter at all, I'd have assumed he was moving his belongings by instalments and would be back for the rest.'
'You must have found it disturbing when he disappeared so completely?'
'Yes, sir, very much so. I often think of it, even now. He could have walked out of the village, of course, but he wouldn't have wanted to go very far laden with a heavy suitcase and valise, which is what he was carrying. He was quite a slight young gentleman. We could only suppose that a carrier from elsewhere had come out to meet him. Either that or he'd waited at the halt all night and taken the early train, although that seemed unlikely. The police, I believe, were unable to find evidence of either, although how carefully they enquired into it, I don't, of course, know.'
'Did anyone consider the possibility of foul play, at the time?'
'Oh yes, sir, we all did, and the police as well. But no-one could imagine who in the village would murder him. He wasn't very popular in some quarters by all accounts, but it's a long stretch from there to murder. That said, I'm inclined to believe that he died here, despite the difficulties. My thinking is that it was not intended. It might, for example, have been an unfortunate punch or a fall during a fight. Chance medley, I believe they call it. That might have led his assailant to hide the evidence by disposing of the body. It could have been easily enough achieved by several people working together, the assailant's friends, perhaps. That's speaking entirely theoretically, of course; I shouldn't wish to hazard who it might have been. I presume you think there may be a connection with Mr Rowsell, sir? It would be nicely economical if it were so.'
Miles smiled. 'I see you read crime novels, Mr Jackson,' he said, noting, on a shelf, a paperback Agatha Christie.'
Following his gaze, the butler smiled shyly back. 'My work is not onerous, sir. I have plenty of time for reading. Yes, I'm intrigued by the deductive aspects of criminal investigation.'
'It's more often a matter of shoe leather, unfortunately; though we have our moments, don't we, Sergeant? Are you happy working here?'
'Yes I am, sir. I will have been with Sir Rupert twenty-five years next Easter, which is when he came to the Hall.'
'Married?'
'Myself? Widowed, sir.'
'Do you like Sir Rupert?
'He's a very nice man, sir. Kindly and generous.'
'Inclined to be misunderstood? Or perhaps that's not a fair question?'
'One needs to get to know him, sir,' said Jackson diplomatically.
'But he didn't get on too well with his nephew?'
'They had their disagreements, sir, but I don't believe there was serious ill-will, not on Sir Rupert's part anyway. Sir Rupert considered himself, I think, in loco parentis, and Mr Baverstock perhaps chafed under that; which I suppose he might, being over the age of majority.'
Miles nodded his understanding. 'I gather Bill Rowsell used to call here in those days, as part of his milk round?'
'Yes, he did, and continued to do so, though we hadn't seen him since Boxing Day.'
'What did you think of him?'
'A polite enough fellow, although he only came to me to be paid. Normally he went to the kitchen entrance.'
'He didn't engage you in conversation?'
'He did initially, sir, but I'm afraid we had nothing in common. He was very religious, you know – what I should call excessively religious – and never missed the opportunity to quote a biblical text.'
'Would it be fair to call him a canting bore?'
'I regret to say, sir, that it would. But one doesn't kill a man for that.'
'No indeed. Josie Mills, as was, used to walk out with him, I believe.'
The butler chuckled. 'Yes, but not for long. I think she felt sorry for him.'
'Do you ever see her?'
'Yes, often. At church, you know, and around the village. I've a standing invitation to their house-warming, should it ever occur.'
'Progress, I understand, is to be counted in pigs. When Mr Baverstock left, did you happen to notice which way he went? Down through the churchyard or out to the road?'
'I don't know, sir. The turning to the footpath is about fifty yards down the drive, and before he'd got that far I had returned to my duties.'
'No flies on Jackson,' said Rattigan with approval. 'A good witness and a logical thinker.'
'He props up our edifice nicely,' agreed Miles. 'And without the benefit of Rowsell's epistle it's reasonable he'd consider chance medley the most likely explanation.'
'Wouldn't the police have thou
ght of that?'
'Probably they did. But without willing witnesses what were they to do? Let's take a look at this footpath.'
'Why the path, particularly?'
'Because if Baverstock was simply moving his belongings he would surely have gone that way as it's the quickest route to Glebe Cottage. If, on the other hand, he was absconding, and if we agree with Jackson that the weight of his luggage required a carrier, he wouldn't have wanted him to be seen by anyone at the Hall or waiting about on the High Street as that would certainly have given the game away. The sensible thing would have been to walk down the drive and meet the fellow at the gates. There are no houses that far along the lane, and the entrance can't be seen from the Hall, so if he'd gone north-about from the village and joined the main road at Nether it's unlikely anyone else would have seen him either. That being so, there's nothing to be discovered about it, so we may as well concentrate on the murder theory.'
'He couldn't have stayed with Miss Ashton; there are only two bedrooms. Unless he slept on the floor.'
'There was always Miss Pruitt – we might check that – or even the Bell.'
They turned left onto a gravel path, quickly passing into the belt of woodland that separated the grounds of the Hall from the High Street. For a minute or two it was as they were in the forest itself, the leafless, rain-darkened trees close on either hand, but then a stone wall and a kissing gate appeared and they found themselves at the top of St John's churchyard. This was the oldest part of it, with ancient and lichenous tombs lying among lesser and mostly half-sunken memorials.
'It's certainly quicker this way,' agreed Rattigan, recognising his surroundings. 'And if anyone wanted to have a go at him, that wood would have been a good place.'
Miles nodded. 'That's what I wondered. It's about the only place between the Hall and the cottage where one could risk an assault, although that would suggest his assailant was waiting for him.'
'Not if he was coming back for the rest of his belongings. He might simply have seen him and followed him here.'
'Yes, good thinking. Disaffected suitor of Ellen follows him to the wood, picks a fight and inadvertently kills him. Leaving him concealed there, he summons his pals to help dispose of the body, probably under cover of darkness.'
'If, indeed, his pals weren't already with him. It could have happened anywhere of course.'
'Yes, it could. But commonsense suggests that it was sooner rather than later. The longer he was about the village, the more chance there was of someone seeing him alive, which they didn't, or didn't admit to anyway.'
'Where does Rowsell come into it?'
'Either a witness or helped with the disposal. Gold and silver, figuratively speaking, needed to overcome his scruples.'
'But Rowsell says no man killed him. He could hardly say that if Baverstock died in a fight.'
'I'm beginning to think we'd be better off without that darned letter. Come on, let's collect the car. Next on the list is Miss Pruitt. She ought to know if anyone was going to put him up.'
'If she's prepared to admit it.'
A steady, chinking thud made them pause.
'Pickaxe?' suggested Rattigan.
'Aha! We need a word with that gentleman.'
They found the old sexton shoulder deep in Cecily Ashton's grave. Spoil was piled high on either side.
'Hello, Mr Peartree. How bist?'
Eustace grinned toothlessly up at them, resting on his pick. Taarbul 'ard it be, zur. They didn' alluz bother wi' the last foot in the wold days, or so I reckons, though they do say stones can grow in the ground.'
'Any bones?'
Eustace chuckled. 'Folk alluz wants ter know that. You gets the odd one, and bits o' coffin wood sometimes, but they dwon't preserve so well here. Dist want I fur zummit?'
'I shouldn't mind a word if you can spare a moment. I understand you work for Sir Rupert. Is that right?'
Settled comfortably on a chest-tomb with a steady supply of cigarettes, Eustace was happy to talk about the Hall. 'I dwon't see much o' missus,' he said, 'but maister be all right. Mr Jackson'll have a chat sometimes, an' a nice little gel brings me tea. Course, I dwon't do the flowers and veg no more – ent got the time – just keeps it tidy like. It be easier now, wi the motor mower.'
'What we really want to know about is twenty years ago, Mr Peartree. When Mr Baverstock disappeared. We're trying to discover what happened to him.'
Eustace's expression immediately became guarded. 'I wurn't there, zur. You wants Mr Jackson. He seen un last, so they say.' He eyed them speculatively for a moment. 'I do know zummit about un as others dwon't; though by rights I should'n tell ee.'
'Why is that?'
'Well, yer see, he gev I a florin not ter split, and I never have done neither.'
'Is that so? Well he's not here now, so he won't know, will he? How about if I double that and make it four bob? Got any change on you, Sergeant?'
'Tidd'n so much really,' cautioned Eustace, having carefully pocketed the money. 'Only once when I wur a-weedin' behind zummerhouse I hears some noises a-comin' from inside. Interestin' noises they wur, so I has a peek through one o' thik there little winders they got at back.' He paused as if to be sure of their attention. 'An' what do I see but young Baverstock and one o' the maids, a-doin' of it. Yes! Pretty near naked she wur, an' him bangin' away at 'er like one o' Bert Clement's piggies.'
Avoiding catching Rattigan's eye, Miles kept his expression studiedly neutral. 'And which of the maids might that have been, Mr Peartree? There were several at the Hall.'
Eustace became coy. 'Aw, I muss'n tell ee who twer, zur. Twouldn't be fair! But he wur supposed to be a-marryin' poor little Ellen Titmus thik very week. Wicked, I calls it.'
'It wouldn't have been Miss Rickman would it?'
'Irene? No chance! She wur engaged to Constable Wheeler then. Girt strappin' feller an' fierce.'
'And would you say the young lady was submitting willingly to Mr Baverstock's attentions?'
Eustace chuckled lasciviously. 'She wur enjoyin' it right enough, if thaas what yer mean.'
Miles nodded, satisfied with his investment. 'And then he caught you looking, I suppose?'
'Naw, twur the girl seen me and screamed. Then he come out an' gev me the florin ter keep quiet. So I did.'
'Did you tell the police this?'
'Naw, cos I never seen um.'
'Hmm, that could be considered an offence, you know: withholding vital information. I understand you took your motor-bicycle into the garage yesterday afternoon. What time was that?'
For a moment Eustace looked calculating, then appeared to think better of it. 'It wur two o'clock, near enough.'
'You sound very sure of that.'
'I wanted ter know what twur, an' they got a clock in the office.'
'All right. And did you see anyone at all, inside or out?'
'Naw, no-one. Stan wur out, so I left un a note.'
'Did you look in the inspection pit.'
Eustace considered the question. 'Naw, I did'n. I left the bike by the workbench, on the other side.'
They walked away to the renewed sound of the pickaxe.
'Assuming he's right,' said Miles, 'it probably gives us an earliest time for the murder. Before he arrived would have been too early. It's very tight, you know: between about five and ten past basically. It's hard to believe they weren't seen by someone, before or after.'
'If they weren't.'
'Quite so. Best look at the scene of this tryst, I suppose.'
Some fifty yards from Bettishaw Hall was an area of perfectly flat lawn, part of it netted off for tennis. The adjacent summerhouse was of timber construction, quite large, in the style of an Indian bungalow. Stepping onto the veranda, Miles tried the double doors. 'Locked,' he said, peering through the glass.
'Key above your head, sir.'
'Fat lot of good that is! Serve 'em right if the place was full of tramps.'
Stored inside was some weathered wicker furniture, a s
tack of deckchairs and a couple of rope-handled boxes of assorted sports equipment. Croquet hoops and mallets lay jumbled in a corner. It was surprisingly warm. The morning drizzle had lifted and the broad, south-facing roof caught the winter sun.
'Cosy,' said Rattigan, gazing around him. 'You know, I'm beginning to wish I'd grown up here and not in London.'
Miles grinned. 'Makes you restless, doesn't it? That's the window Eustace looked through, presumably.'
'He might even have died in here. Baverstock, I mean.'
'Or did he die anywhere? Time to question some of our assumptions perhaps.'
'You think he might have skipped off after all?'
'Well it gives one to wonder. Unless he was having a final fling, I suppose.'
'Funny, isn't it, with middle-aged women? You can't imagine them ever having done that sort of thing.'
'Josie, do you mean? Oh I don't know. One thing is certain; she's got some explaining to do, and that's going to be embarrassing for both of us. Let's go and see Miss Pruitt.'
'This is very kind of you, Miss Pruitt. Thank you,' said Miles, as they took their tea and biscuits. 'There are several things I'd like to ask you, but firstly we are trying to reconstruct Linsey Baverstock's last hours in Bettishaw. Did you, by any chance, offer to put him up on the Wednesday night? He was due to be married on the Friday, I believe.'
Miss Pruit gave her usual contemplative nod. 'I didn't offer, but Cecily asked me on his behalf and I agreed. He never arrived, of course. Perhaps I should have told you that, but it didn't occur to me. I told the police originally, I think.'
'Was he to arrive at any particular time?'
'No, just that evening. Ellen was a little concerned, but we expected him momently and by bedtime it was too late to do anything about it. The next day she enquired for him at the Hall, and learning that he had left as expected, informed the constable.'
'What did Sir Rupert say about it?'
'Nothing then, they were away. By the time he got back, a detective inspector had arrived and was making enquiries. He appeared sensible and methodical enough but could get nowhere. Sir Rupert also instituted his own search.'
'Miss Pruitt, on the subject of Sir Rupert. We have had conflicting reports. You must have known him for many years, if perhaps not that well. What do you make of him?'
A Country Way of Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 4) Page 14
