by Evelyn James
“That must have happened, what, eighty years ago?” Tommy interjected.
“Closer to one hundred,” Mr Gage replied.
“As awful as it was, and it appears it stuck in local memory, I don’t see how that relates to the death of Mr Beech,” Tommy added.
Mr Gage gave him a wise smile.
“That is because I had not finished my story,” he said, implying a lack of patience on Tommy’s part. “Sarah Harper, before she married, was Sarah Beech. She was sister to William’s grandmother and her death rocked the Beech family. I just find the coincidence troubling that nearly a century on Bill suffered a fate similar to his great aunt.”
“That is if we assume Mr Beech’s killing was because of witchcraft,” Clara corrected him.
“They were both pinned down by pitchforks,” Mr Gage pointed out. “The act of pinning a witch to the ground is intended to keep its soul from rising and roaming about to cause harm on others.”
“Surely it could be argued that Thomas Bowle used a pitchfork in his crime because it was the weapon he had to hand?” Clara countered. “Had he been carrying a shotgun, then perhaps he would have shot Sarah?”
“You have to look at the other facts,” Mr Gage said, becoming slightly heated that she was not taking him seriously. “Bill was attacked in three separate ways, all of the methods being capable of killing him. The old traditions say you must kill a witch three different ways to be sure they stay dead. Then there is the slashing of his throat. Three strikes.”
“At least three,” Clara again tried to keep things rational. “It could have been four, or five.”
“Three is a special number in witchcraft. Bad luck comes in threes. To counter evil, you must strike three times. And three multiplied by three is even more powerful. Three attacks on Bill, one of which consisted of three slashes.”
“You are saying that someone killed William Beech because they thought he was a witch,” Tommy spoke before Clara could add her thoughts to this theory. “We have already been told of that possibility, but you said yourself, Mr Beech caused no one harm.”
“Nor did Sarah Harper,” Mr Gage was agitated. “People have a run of misfortune and they start to look for a reason. They can’t just accept that sometimes these things happen. Then they recall there is an old wiseman in the area and maybe they bumped into him one day and he gave them a funny look. Suddenly they are concluding that Bill has cursed them, brought this ill luck upon them.”
“People can’t possibly believe that,” Clara said incredulously.
“More people believe that sort of thing than would care to admit it. But it takes a person with a certain way of thinking to conclude that the only way out of their bad situation is to murder a man.”
Mr Gage’s revelations had brought them back to silence. It seemed incredible to suppose someone had killed William Beech because they thought he was a witch, until you heard the tale of Sarah Harper and her connection to William.
Clara was just not happy to write off this crime as an act of self-defence in the face of black magic.
“Who in Hangleton would do such a thing?” Tommy said aloud. The question was not rhetorical, it was aimed at Mr Gage. “You know the people there. Does anyone strike you as the sort to believe so heartily in witchcraft they would kill a man?”
Mr Gage did not look as though he would answer at first, he was plucking at his blanket again. They had been sitting in the kitchen over an hour discussing this grim topic and the elderly man was starting to look tired. He stared into nothing for a while, his fingers keeping up the plucking, then he gave a small sniff. He was drained and emotional.
“I would say most of the older residents believe in that sort of thing,” he said at last. “I am not sure any of them are capable of murder, however.”
This was unhelpful.
“Had Mr Beech had a disagreement with anyone recently?” Clara asked.
Mr Gage was once again uncertain.
“Bill wasn’t one to discuss his problems. It is always possible someone had argued with him, though Bill would not have started it. He liked to keep people at a distance.”
“What about Mr Spinner?” Tommy asked.
“What about him?” Mr Gage looked worried.
“Had Mr Beech ever argued with him?”
Mr Gage pressed his lips together. Clara wondered why the question troubled him so much. There was a long wait for a reply.
“Mr Spinner is not a man I know well enough to answer that,” he said, which was not an answer at all.
“Well, thank you for taking the time…”
Mr Gage interrupted Clara. She had started to stand from her chair, and he raised a hand to insist she sit again.
“Have you talked to Samuel Peel?”
This was the first Clara had heard that name.
“No,” she replied.
“Samuel Peel is the fiancé of Hanna Beech. He works for the water board. They have been associating now for several years, but Hanna was reluctant to go further and marry him with her father still alive.”
“Mr Gage, what you are suggesting is that Samuel Peel might have wanted William Beech out of the way?”
“Or Hanna wanted him out of the way,” Mr Gage shrugged. “I am not a fool, Miss Fitzgerald, I know that an old man is a burden on a young woman. I am a burden on my daughter, but she is older. She is already married and raised a family, so she can endure the difficulties I make for her, but Hanna? She is young, but time is leaving her behind. If she wants the chance at a family, then she must marry Samuel sooner rather than later.”
“Was Mr Beech deliberately preventing the marriage?” Tommy asked.
Mr Gage considered the question. He was making some serious accusations. Clara hoped he appreciated what he was doing. One minute they had been talking about the slaying of Mr Beech as being due to a fear of witchcraft, now they were back to a far more ordinary motive – that of frustration and greed.
“Bill never said as much. I don’t think he would ever tell Hanna not to do something. He loved her, and he liked Samuel. But his condition made it impossible for Hanna to consider leaving him and the cottage was too small to accommodate Samuel as well.”
“They could have moved somewhere else,” Clara pointed out. “That is what people do.”
“Yes, I see that, but supposing Samuel did not want his elderly father-in-law living with him?” Mr Gage persisted. “I don’t know for sure, but it struck me that young man is a world apart from us old country folk. I can’t see him being able to put up with Bill’s habits. In any case, Bill would never leave the cottage. That was where his wife died and moving would be like leaving her behind.”
Clara contemplated what he had said.
“That is a very different murder to killing because of witchcraft,” she said.
“I am only being honest. Maybe Bill was not killed because he was a wiseman, maybe someone made it look that way. I don’t know for sure of anything, in truth, but you should keep your eyes on Samuel Peel. I never trusted him.”
“Why?” Tommy asked.
“He was always too nice,” Mr Gage snorted. “Anyway, I don’t trust anyone who works for the water board, they are always trying to squeeze more money out of you.”
Clara rose from her seat and this time was not stopped by the old man.
“Thank you for speaking to us, Mr Gage,” she said to him. “You have given us a greater insight into the man William Beech was.”
“No, I didn’t,” Mr Gage snorted. “I hardly told you anything. You wanted to know if he had enemies, I could not say. Thinking about it, I am not sure I knew him very well at all.”
“That seems to be the way most people feel,” Tommy observed. “But you grew up with him, that gives you an insight others do not have.”
Mr Gage did not seem impressed.
“Have they said when the funeral will be?”
“No. The police investigation takes priority,” Clara said carefully.
&nb
sp; “Would you mind reminding Hanna that I would like to know when it is. I might not be able to attend, but I shall try,” He plucked at his blanket. “I hope you find who did this.”
Clara and Tommy said their farewells and departed the kitchen, dodging the wet puddles on the hallway floor where Gage’s daughter had been working. Outside again, Tommy tapped his sister’s arm.
“Well?”
“I am just as confused as before,” Clara admitted.
“What about the witchcraft angle?”
Clara cringed. She would have liked to have ignored that altogether, but she knew she could not.
“I am keeping it in mind,” she grudgingly acknowledged. “Just in case the killer proves to be a lunatic affected by the evil eye.”
Chapter Twenty-One
They headed back into Hangleton and discovered that Inspector Park-Coombs was also there. He was just exiting The King’s Arms as they arrived, looking grim. Clara wondered if he had heard the talk of his constable seeing a demon dog.
“Hello Inspector,” Clara called out, having Jones bring the car to a halt. “What brings you to Hangleton today?”
Inspector Park-Coombs had that sullen look on his face that always implied he was not in the mood to be awfully cooperative. Clara knew she would have to tread carefully. He approached the car.
“Well, I am not here to do what I really want, which is to arrest my prime suspect,” he grumbled to her.
“Mr Spinner,” Clara concurred.
“His story for the day of the murder is full of more holes than a sieve,” Park-Coombs huffed. “But I have no real proof he did it. I’ve got a constable at his house confiscating the clothes he wore the day of the murder as we speak. Dr Deáth says whoever did this had to have been covered in blood.”
“Do you have anything else, fingerprints, perhaps?” Clara said, trying not to seem as if she was prying him for information.
Park-Coombs shook his head.
“The pitchfork handle was too rough a surface, the fingerprints Deáth managed to get were too incomplete to help us. The hedging tool handle had none on it. In any case, Mr Spinner handled the pitchfork in front of a witness, so even if we had found his fingerprints on it, he could have argued they got there when he touched the handle after they found Beech dead.”
Park-Coombs gave a gruff sigh and rubbed at his breastbone.
“This is all giving me terrible indigestion,” he stifled a burp. “To top it all, I had word this morning that Scotland Yard might take over the whole thing. Apparently, the Chief Constable is not convinced I can solve this one and wants the boys from London to come poking their noses in.”
“I’m sorry Inspector,” Clara said sympathetically, it was never nice to have a case you were working on snatched from you with the implication you were not up to solving it. “Have you discovered anything, outside of this witchcraft nonsense, that could suggest a motive for the murder?”
“That is one thing that I do have a clue about,” Park-Coombs relaxed just a fraction as he got onto a topic where he felt confident. “We are wondering about money being the motive. You see, it seems Mr Beech married his cousin, both when they were older and did not expect to have any family. The cousin had money from her own parents and was well-off, by all accounts. The pair lived frugally and existed on Mr Beech’s earnings rather than touch his wife’s money. When she passed away, he inherited everything she had.
“The talk I was hearing was that Mr Beech was actually very well-off, but you would never know it to look at him. Something of a miser, people commented. Now, you and I both know, Clara, that money is a very strong motive for murder. I want to know if there is any truth in the rumours. Honestly, even if there isn’t, it could be enough that someone thought he had a lot of money to incite them to murder.”
“Remarkable,” Tommy said, leaning over his sister to see the inspector through the car window. “I never would have guessed Mr Beech had money. Is it true?”
“We discovered he had a bank account, which is not something most farm labourers have,” Park-Coombs said with just a hint of a twinkle in his eyes. “We also tracked down his wife’s will and there it was, in black and white. She left him £500, a significant sum, which he placed directly in a brand-new bank account. Up until recently he rarely touched it, implying he was saving it either for a rainy day, or to pass to his daughter when his time came.”
“Until recently?” Clara picked up this point.
“Over the last few months, Mr Beech has made several withdrawals from the account. To the point that only £10 remains. However, there is no indication of where the money went to. His habits had not changed, he had not bought anything new for himself or his house. He was still working, as was his daughter, and even if he was dipping into his savings to support the running of his home, it would not have cost him £490 since last September. No, my suspicion is he was giving the money to someone.”
“Hanna Beech?” Tommy suggested.
Clara frowned. The daughter had not seemed to need money. She had her own job and did not appear to be living extravagantly.
“Whatever for?” She said. “There is no sign Hanna has been spending money frivolously.”
“Then, perhaps Samuel Peel? Her husband-to-be?” Tommy said.
“We are going to look into his finances, for thoroughness,” Park-Coombs interjected. “But I am more interested in Mr Spinner. You see, while I was at the bank, I had a chat about Spinner’s Farm and the property is heavily mortgaged and there are a lot of debts mounting up. Spinner is losing money year after year and his profits are only just covering all the interest and repayments on his various loans. He is a man who needs money and might ask someone to lend him some money on the sly.”
“You think he was borrowing money from Mr Beech,” Clara laid the argument out for them. “And then Mr Beech became anxious about the money and wanted it back.”
“Or refused to give Spinner more when he asked for it, simply because he had run out,” Park-Coombs added. “There was an argument, Spinner lost his temper and Beech was killed.”
“Still doesn’t explain the savagery of the assault,” Tommy said.
“I find it hard to explain that at all,” Park-Coombs shrugged at him. “What I would like to be able to do would be to find Spinner depositing the same amounts of money in his own account that Mr Beech was withdrawing, but so far I have had no luck.”
Clara was pondering over this news. She was thinking of Spinner’s farmhouse being fully wired for electricity and how much that would cost when he was not near any of the main lines. A cable would have needed to be laid across his land, undoubtedly at his own expense. Did Hangleton even have electricity or had the branch line needed to come from Hove itself? The cost would have been incredible, and few would have considered it worth it. But Spinner liked to appear modern, liked his wife to have the best and newest gadgets. Look at that electric iron, which few could afford on its own.
“Anyway, I need to get on,” Park-Coombs gave another sigh. “I am going to speak with Mr Spinner’s father, and I expect it to be an unpleasant conversation.”
“Take care, Inspector,” Clara said to him.
He gave a mumbled reply, then walked off looking miserable.
“What now?” Tommy asked her.
Clara was distracted for a moment, thinking about what the inspector had told them. Money was one of the primary motives for murder. Who had been siphoning Mr Beech’s savings from him?
“Clara?”
“Hm? Oh, I would like to speak to Samuel Peel, get his side of the story, since he is being tacitly accused of wanting his future father-in-law dead. I imagine he shall be found at the Water Board offices.”
This last was for Jones, who glanced in the rear-view mirror and gave Clara a nod. Then, seemingly knowing exactly where he was going, he pulled the car away from the pavement and drove them purposefully back into Hove.
The Water Board had recently moved from some rather handsome b
ut impractical Victorian offices, to a modern purpose-built structure, which had the appearance of a concrete box dotted with windows. It was meant to look dramatic and cutting-edge, Clara thought it rather bleak. Set behind a mesh fence and sturdy gates, kept open during the day, it had just a hint about it of a prison block, but that was probably not intentional.
A little sentry style box stood near the gates and should have been manned by a gatekeeper, presumably to keep out those who wished to complain about their water bill, but was currently empty with no sign of its occupier nearby.
Jones rolled the car through the gates and neatly into a parking spot on the tarmacadam forecourt.
“Should I stay with the car?” He asked, though Clara sensed it would take an army to actually remove him from the vehicle. He not only drove the car, he saw it as his duty to protect it at all costs from potential thieves and vandals, of which, in Jones’ mind, there was a plethora about Brighton and Hove.
“Probably for the best,” Clara told him, noting that this seemed to be a great relief to Jones.
She and Tommy left the vehicle and walked to the main doors of the building. They stepped into a black and white tiled hallway, which had a similar bleakly functional appearance to it as the outside of the building. There was a rectangular window on the right-hand wall that opened into what was presumably a receptionist’s office. There was no one about here, either.
“Seems abandoned,” Tommy muttered.
Clara had noticed that on the other wall there was a chart listing the number of each office and who was assigned the space. She was casting her eye over it, looking for the surname Peel, when a woman walked around a corner with two mugs of tea in her hands and started at the sight of them. Tea sploshed out of the mugs and to the floor.
“Oh!” She declared at them, then she glanced at the floor. “Oh!”
“We are looking for Mr Peel,” Tommy jumped in before the woman could issue another, more pertinent words, such as ‘get out’. “Are you the receptionist?”
“Assistant receptionist,” the girl said, looking between the pair of them. “Mrs Carter is helping with the flood.”
