by Evelyn James
He just couldn’t shake the feeling that Annie was in danger, even though he knew that was irrational. Inspector Park-Coombs had said he thought this was a targeted attack, not a random killing. There was no reason Annie should be in harm’s way at all. So why could he not ease the dread from his belly?
He made his way downstairs to the kitchen and found Clara standing over a large saucepan and staring at its contents with a puzzled expression.
“I dread to ask,” Tommy said.
“Good morning,” Clara responded brightly, clearly her sleep had been untroubled. “I was attempting porridge, you would not think that was a challenging thing, would you?”
Tommy came closer and stared down into the saucepan.
“Are you sure that is not cement?”
Clara gave him a firm shove.
“I thought if I added more water it would help, but no, it appears to have set,” Clara gave a wooden spoon wedged in the porridge a hard pull and it moved only a fraction. “What do I do?”
“Dump the saucepan and buy a new one?” Tommy suggested.
Clara gave a snort, then she removed the saucepan from the stove and placed it on the floor.
“Bramble,” she called and the poodle trotting merrily into the kitchen. “Eat that.”
Clara pointed out the porridge. Normally the dog could not resist consuming human food over his usual diet of raw meat and dog biscuits. He pounced at the pot eagerly, but one sniff of the contents was enough to convince him this was a form of food not edible to dog or man. He walked away with a look of disdain.
“I feel my cooking has reached a new degree of failure,” Clara said with her hands propped on her hips.
“Shall I make some toast?” Tommy offered. “I think I can achieve that.”
Clara agreed, grabbing up the saucepan and depositing it in the sink. She flooded the pan with water and then left it to soak, in the hope that this would loosen the cloying mess she had made.
“You look dreadful,” she informed Tommy.
“You have such a bedside manner,” he responded drily. He did feel awful, but he didn’t want to admit to the cause.
Unfortunately, Clara could guess what the matter was.
“You worried all night about Annie’s proximity to the murder of William Beech,” she said.
Tommy shrugged.
“There is no reason for Annie to be anything other than fine,” Clara told him stoutly.
“Who do you think Park-Coombs was referring to when he said he had a suspect?” Tommy said, endeavouring to change the subject.
Clara thought about this for a while.
“I suppose it is someone the old man knew. Someone who was in the area when he was killed. I know so little about the crime, I can’t speculate on things.”
“Whoever did this, they must be pretty rotten inside,” Tommy said grimly. “From what Oliver said, it was an horrify act of violence. Someone must have a lot of rage pent up in them to do a thing like that.”
“Question you have to ask yourself is who hated Mr Beech so much they would do that to him.”
“Not something you like to contemplate,” Tommy sighed.
He caught a whiff of burning crumb and recalled his toast. He salvaged his efforts before they were charred beyond recognition. He was in the process of placing them on plates when the telephone rang.
“That might be Annie!” He declared at once and rushed off to answer it, his heart pounding as he feared some great emergency had forced Annie into using the telephone, a device she detested because you could not see peoples’ faces.
“Hello?” He answered breathlessly.
“Have I got the correct number for the Fitzgerald Detective Agency?” A crackling voice asked.
Obviously, it was not Annie. Tommy deflated.
“Yes,” he said.
“Are you one of the detectives?”
Recently, Tommy had gone from being a helpful assistant in Clara’s business to being a partner, a fellow detective. After some debate, for Clara had made her name on being a female private detective, the first in Brighton, they had agreed to begin advertising the business not solely under her name but as the Fitzgerald Detective Agency. It was still very much Clara’s affair, first and foremost, and when Tommy heard the speaker’s question, he came close to saying ‘no’, and offering to fetch Clara. Then he remembered that he was, officially, a detective and could accept the telephone call on their behalf.
“I am. Thomas Fitzgerald, speaking.”
There was a slight sigh on the other end of the line.
“Look, I would really like to talk to you. It’s important, but I don’t want to discuss things on the telephone with the operator listening in.”
The speaker was a gruff-sounding man. There was urgency to his tone.
“Can you come to my house?”
“Where are you?” Tommy asked, hoping it was close.
“Spinners’ Farm, Hove,” the speaker answered. “Can you be here in a couple of hours?”
Tommy calculated the distance.
“Probably, depending on the buses.”
“Good,” the speaker answered, and the line went dead.
Tommy slowly put down the receiver and considered what he had just been told.
“Who was that?” Clara asked from the kitchen.
“I think that was Mr Spinner,” Tommy said. “Seems he needs our assistance.”
~~~*~~~
Just over two hours later Clara and Tommy found themselves walking up a long driveway leading to a fairly modern farmhouse at the top of a hill. It was a steep climb, the kind that looks deceptively shallow at the beginning before sharply turning into an imitation mountain. Clara felt the muscles of her calves burning as they followed the path, Tommy was struggling a little, his war wounds making the innocuous journey seem all the harder. He still managed to point over to their left, however, and note to Clara that they could see the copse where they had found Patch just in the distance.
The farmhouse was a welcome sight when they finally broached the top of the hill. It was a whitewashed, rather nondescript property, which made up for what it lacked in design by having amazing views across the rolling fields. There was no sign of anybody about.
Clara approached the front door and knocked.
“Funny, place feels rather bleak for all the glory of those vistas,” Tommy remarked, pulling a face as he stared at the uninspiring house. “Maybe its because it is overcast today. Maybe on a bright sunny summer’s afternoon it feels different.”
Clara wondered if her knock was going to receive a reply. She was sure this was the right farm, there had been a wooden board at the bottom of the hill that had stated the name of the place, though, the way the countryside was, she wouldn’t be surprised if there happened to be two farms with the same name. Even so, given what Mr Blyth had said about Mr Spinner, she was sure this was the right place.
She was just about to knock again when a window was thrust open to her right and a woman peered out. She was rather unremarkable, much like the house. The type of person it is easy to forget all about the second you stop talking to them. If Clara had had to describe her later on, she would have struggled to recall even the most minor details. She was in her late thirties, or thereabouts, with tightly curled mousy hair and a homely appearance. Some might have referred to her as being a typical farmer’s wife.
“Who are you?” She asked, an edge to her voice, though it was not plain if it was annoyance, suspicion, or fear.
“Clara Fitzgerald and Thomas Fitzgerald, from the detective agency. We were asked to come out here at once, I presume by Mr Spinner, though no name was given us,” Clara explained. She was relieved to see the woman relax, it seemed she was aware of their expected arrival.
“Come around the back, we never use the front door,” she said and pointed to a path that wound around the corner of the house before she disappeared back inside.
Clara gave a shrug to Tommy and they obeyed.
The woman was standing on her back doorstep when they appeared in the yard behind the house. This area of the property at least looked like it saw some life – there were tools laid out on a workbench, muddy boots by the door, a washing line with clothes flapping in the breeze and a lazy-eyed ginger tom, who sat on an upturned bucket and flicked his tail at the new arrivals.
“Mrs Kate Spinner,” the woman introduced herself. “You’ll have to excuse the mess in the kitchen, I am behind with my chores what with all this business.”
She didn’t elaborate on what business she was referring to, just vaguely waved in the direction of the workbench and stepped back inside. Clara and Tommy followed. They found themselves in a compact kitchen. It had a gas stove, rather than an old-fashioned coal range and smart white cupboards that appeared to have been specially built and fitted for it. The only piece of older furniture was a great dresser, which was the prerequisite of every respectable kitchen, with its many pots and pans, plates, jugs, cups, and saucers. The kitchen table was piled with damp clothes and Mrs Spinner was in the process of fixing the cord of an electric iron into the light fixing in the ceiling. Clara was intrigued, it was the first time she had seen an electric iron in use, though she had heard of them and seen advertisements for them.
Mrs Spinner had removed the bulb from the light and exchanged it for the thick black cord of the iron. This involved her clambering up onto a chair to reach as she was not a very tall woman. Once the iron was installed, she stepped back down and switched on the iron, adjusting a knob to the heat setting she required. Then she sighed.
“Honestly, it is meant to be more convenient, but I miss the old flat irons you heated on the stove,” she said, noticing Clara’s curiosity. “I give myself a shock at the socket nearly every time, and the cord wraps up in everything, but the gas stove is not really right for heating irons and we do have the electricity. As my husband says, why have all this modernity and not make use of it?”
“It was your husband who telephoned us?” Tommy asked.
“Oh yes, he needs your help. Or rather, we need it. Yesterday was just terrible,” Mrs Spinner touched at her temple as if a pain had struck her, her calm was shaken and beneath it there was obvious anxiety. “I’ll fetch him for you. Might you watch the iron?”
She seemed distracted, unable to focus on any task fully. She wandered off to seek out her husband, but Clara could not help but feel it would be easy for the woman to become lost in another random chore along the way and forget all about them.
“Do you think they are referring to this business with Mr Beech?” Tommy asked once the woman had gone.
“Seems to me the only dramatic thing that has happened around here recently,” Clara replied. “But quite what connects them to it, I can’t say.”
She was reminded of the desk sergeant discussing all the calls he had received concerning suspicious strangers the day before and wondered if Mr Spinner had called them out for a similar wild goose chase. Maybe he had seen someone lurking about his farm and thought they were the killer and wanted Clara to resolve the matter. Clara glanced out the kitchen window, looking across the fields from their lonely vantage point. You could see a lot from these windows, if you happened to be staring out at the right moment.
Mrs Spinner returned with a man at her heels. Mr Spinner was a tall and stout fellow, he almost had to duck to fit through the doorways. He wore the typical shabby, practical clothes of a farmer – thick cord trousers, shirt, waistcoat, stiff woollen jacket and plaid flat cap. He had small eyes and big ears, and a slightly gormless look that was deceptive, for here was a man running a successful farm and making enough money to afford to buy his wife an electric iron.
“Alastair Spinner,” he introduced himself, to Tommy first, only acknowledging Clara as an afterthought.
That annoyed her, but she did not say anything.
“You contacted us earlier today, about something urgent?” She said.
Alastair Spinner seemed a little startled that she had took the lead.
“Yes, I spoke with your associate,” he started to point at Tommy and then looked unsure about himself.
“You spoke with my brother, Tommy, who is my partner in the detective agency,” Clara wanted to make it plain that she and Tommy were equals. “We came as swiftly as we could.”
She was waiting for Mr Spinner to explain himself, but he seemed almost reluctant to do so. He had a sorrowful expression, that was verging on turning sour.
“I am glad you could make it, this has been a very bad business,” he said.
Clara nearly groaned as he used the same phrase as his wife. Did no one wish to tell her what was the matter?
“Exactly what is this bad business, Mr Spinner?” Clara asked him.
Mr Spinner looked surprised at her asking.
“Why, the murder of Bill Beech, of course!”
“A terrible tragedy that the police are investigating,” Clara nodded. “But how does it specifically affect you?”
Mr Spinner’s expression suggested he was stunned she did not already know, and Clara was revising her earlier opinion that he could not be as gormless as he looked.
“Well its simple, isn’t it?” Spinner stared at them. “The police think I did it. That I murdered Bill!”
Chapter Seven
Mrs Spinner burst into tears over her ironing. Alastair looked over at her, a grimace of unhappiness on his own face, but he did not rush to her aid.
“It is so awful,” Mrs Spinner declared. “The police were around here all yesterday, asking all manner of questions. I couldn’t get a thing done and when that dreadful inspector finally left, he gave my husband such a look! I knew right then what he was thinking.”
“Have you been officially questioned?” Clara asked, wondering if this was all paranoia on the part of the Spinners.
“They talked to me here, for ages. Kept going and coming back with new questions,” Alastair said. “That inspector asked me flat out did I have any argument with Bill. Had I rowed with him recently. Then he wanted to know in great detail my movements on the day Bill was murdered. I said to Kate straight afterwards, plain as plain, that man thinks I did it.”
Mrs Spinner was weeping softly to herself, Clara was tempted to go over to comfort her, but if she did she would have to defer charge of the conversation with Mr Spinner to Tommy and once she did that, Alastair Spinner was never going to consider her an equal to her brother in this business. Oh, it was all about her pride, she knew that well enough, but she was too stubborn to do anything else.
“Let’s take a step back,” Clara said instead. “Precisely why would the inspector think you had anything to do with the murder of William Beech?”
“Well, he died on my land, didn’t he?” Alastair said. “Down in the lower field, doing the hedges.”
“And Alastair found him,” Mrs Spinner sniffed. “It was late in the evening, when Bill’s daughter came up to the house to say her father had never come home. Alastair led the search, showing them the spot where old Bill had been working and that was where they found him. Horrible, just horrible.”
“I did my duty,” Mr Spinner pulled himself up stiffly as if on parade. “I summoned the police, made sure Bill’s daughter Hanna was taken home, and all I get in return is suspicion. What did I do to deserve that?”
Clara could not answer him. From what she had heard Park-Coombs say the previous evening, she imagined he had some exceptionally good reasons to accuse Mr Spinner of this terrible murder.
“You have to prove my innocence,” Alastair insisted, his face reddening in his indignation.
“All right,” Clara said carefully. “Then I need to know everything about what happened yesterday, and you have to be completely honest with me, Mr Spinner, concerning your dealings with the late William Beech.”
“What does that mean?” Spinner said angrily, proving he had a quick temper.
“It means I want to know why the police might suspect you and if
there is anything that could appear damning to your cause, I need to know about it. The police have a reason for suspecting you, we need to understand what that is and then pull it apart.”
“The police need no reason,” Mrs Spinner snapped. “They just want to make an easy arrest. All they have against poor Alastair is that Bill died on his land. It could have been anyone who killed him, anyone.”
Clara knew the inspector well enough that he was not the sort of policeman who would throw around an accusation with no supporting evidence. If he thought Mr Spinner the culprit, there was more to it than merely the dead man being discovered in Spinner’s field.
“I need to take this all step by step,” Clara explained, trying to sound as calm and reasonable as possible in the face of Mrs Spinner’s near hysteria. “Why don’t we begin by going to the scene of the crime? You can tell us on the way, Mr Spinner, about the search for William Beech.”
Spinner huffed but agreed with the suggestion. He showed them out the back door and around to the front of the house.
“Bill’s daughter Hanna called at the house around seven-thirty the night before last,” he explained as they walked. “She has a little job at the bakery and gets home around seven. Bill was always home before her. He couldn’t work long hours these days.”
“He was doing hedging work for you?” Tommy asked.
“Bill did all sorts of small jobs at the farm, the sort that did not need to be done in a hurry. He had to take things at his own pace. He suffered badly from rheumatism and during the winter could spend days confined to his bed. Whenever he was able, he would come and ask me for work,” Alastair Spinner took them across the grassy slope of the hill. “About a fortnight before, he came to me and asked if I would be wanting the hedges trimmed and laid. I said I would, and he was welcome to the work. He hedged when he felt up to it, usually started around eight in the morning and finished before it was dark. He would come to me, say how much he had done, and I would pay him.”
