by Evelyn James
“Flood?” Tommy asked, wondering if he had heard correctly.
“Yes. The pipe in the lady’s bathroom sprung a leak and there is water everywhere.”
“A leak in the Water Board building, how ironic,” Clara said softly to Tommy.
“And as it is the lady’s bathroom, it would not be proper for the men to go in and deal with the issue,” the woman continued, as if this was the most logical thing in the world and hardly needed to be explained. “So, they asked Mrs Carter to go in and fix it. They are shouting instructions to her from the doorway.”
Tommy gave Clara a look that summed up her thoughts on the situation. Incompetence and idiocy sprang to mind, though it seemed a typical example of the way these public institutions functioned. It was as if common sense was left at the door when a person first took on a job in such a place.
“Is Mr Peel helping with the leak?” Clara asked.
“Oh no, he is in his office today,” the girl had now walked through a door into her reception office and was putting the tea down on a desk. “Shall I ring up and let him know he has visitors?”
“No, we thought we would just walk in and surprise him, being perfect strangers and all,” Tommy said with mild sarcasm.
This was lost on the girl, who simply looked puzzled and then sat at a desk and started sorting through some paperwork.
“By that I meant, yes please,” Tommy corrected himself.
The girl gave him another curious look.
“Why did you not say so?” Tutting to herself about people who could not speak their mind, she rang through to Mr Peel.
“Mr Peel? Yes, its reception here. You have a gentleman and a lady here to see you.”
The girl paused as she was given instructions from the other end of the line. She frowned, then glanced back at Tommy and Clara.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” Clara spoke up. “We are here because we are investigating the death of Mr William Beech, might you be able to tell Mr Peel that?”
The receptionist now looked worried as she almost whispered down the line.
“It is about the death of Mr Beech, Mr Peel.”
She was silent a while, then glanced back at Clara.
“He says you can go up.”
She replaced the phone receiver and went back to her work, her task, as she saw it, complete. Tommy stared in astonishment and was about to open his mouth to say something when Clara tapped his arm and motioned to the board she had been examining before the girl came. They could see the number of Mr Peel’s office and it would not be hard to find it, not when the building seemed laid out in a boringly obvious manner. She could already see the architect had been inclined to make it very easy for anyone to find a specific room. No winding corridors, odd switchbacks and extensions that made traversing the property like exploring a labyrinth.
Mr Peel’s office was on the second floor and that was where they headed, taking a flight of stairs that was dead ahead and was helpfully labelled on one side ‘first floor’ with an arrow indicating upwards. Clara assumed that even with the uncomplicated layout of the building, the staff were prone to getting lost and needed all the help they could get.
At the top of the stairs, they found another set that would lead them to the second floor. Once there, all they had to do was locate the correct office. Fortunately, all the doors had been labelled with the names of the occupiers along with the office number. It was not long before they were knocking on a brown door labelled ‘Mr S. Peel’.
Mr Peel called for them to enter and they found themselves in a spacious office with wide, metal-framed windows supplying it with a great deal of light. The furniture was all very practical; metal and wood, primarily, and the walls were untouched by any sort of decoration. Clara got the impression that Mr Peel had not resided in this office for very long.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mr Peel. I am Clara Fitzgerald, and this is my brother Tommy,” Clara was introducing them before they were barely in the door. She didn’t think she would get long to explain herself before Mr Peel would decide whether he wanted to talk to them or not. “We have been asked to independently look into the murder of Mr William Beech and to determine the culprit. That is why we are here to see you.”
Peel seemed mildly startled by the way Clara swiftly rattled off this information. He stared at her from behind round spectacles, before saying in a strained voice.
“William is dead?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Clara had never imagined that Mr Peel would be ignorant of his future father-in-law’s terrible demise. She had assumed Hanna would have spoken to him, if nothing else than to have him as a shoulder to cry on. She had also imagined the police had reached the man before her, had already briefed him on the situation and taken his statement. Instead, it turned out, Mr Peel had been oblivious to the horrible crime and its implications for him and Hanna.
“I thought you knew,” Clara said, uneasily.
“I did not,” Samuel Peel responded. “Dead? Murdered?”
“He was slain with his own hedging tool,” Tommy said. “Pretty grim.”
Mr Peel was breathing fast now, taking in this news with alarm.
“I cannot fathom such a thing happening to William. He was a kindly old man. He had no enemies.”
“It seems someone did not agree with you,” Clara said gently. “We had wanted to ask you about the fourteenth of February.”
“What about it?” Peel said.
“It was the day Mr Beech died,” Clara elaborated. “Where were you that day?”
“Here,” Mr Peel said sharply. He could not help but appreciate what she was implying. “Look, I have not seen William since Sunday when we had supper together, as always.”
He was breathless now and was starting to go a reddish hue.
“This is ridiculous!”
Mr Peel slapped a hand to his chest and began to gasp in air painfully. He looked as though he was struggling to breath and Clara, alarmed at the sight, jumped around his desk to help.
“Do you take medication?” She asked him urgently, wondering if it was his heart at fault.
Mr Peel was still sucking in air rather than breathing properly.
“No,” he managed to hiss. “It always… passes…”
“Right, sit back, allow your chest room to expand,” Clara was immediately back in her nursing role, helping a patient to recover. “Try not to force your breath. Let it just happen.”
Peel’s breathing was starting to even out. He no longer sounded like he was gulping for air, instead he took several deep, shaky breaths and his body slowly grew calm.
Tommy spotted some water sitting on a cabinet by the wall and retrieved a glass for the stricken man. Mr Peel accepted it gladly and took a cautious sip. The panic was fading from his eyes and it seemed the drama was over.
Clara returned to her correct side of the desk and waited. It was not long before Mr Peel provided an explanation.
“Asthma,” he said. “Had it since I was a child. The attacks come out of the blue, but can be triggered by shock, as you saw.”
“I apologise,” Clara said, relieved he no longer appeared to be dying. “I spoke too bluntly.”
Peel waved a hand at her.
“I needed to know. Please, would you explain to me the circumstances of William Beech’s death?”
They spent the next half hour going over what had occurred and answering any questions Peel had. When they were done, he sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling solemnly.
“I can’t get my head around it,” he admitted.
“I think everyone is feeling that way,” Clara assured him.
“I am surprised Hanna has not contacted me,” Mr Peel looked worried now.
“She perhaps does not wish to worry you. Some news is best discussed in person, not over the telephone.”
Peel shook his head.
“I am still surprised she has not sought me out,” he rubbed
a hand in a circular movement over his chest. “Has someone suggested I killed him?”
Peel did not look horrified by the question, more saddened that such a thing had occurred. He waited for an answer.
“Everyone who knew Mr Beech is a suspect, currently,” Clara dodged the question. “Anyone in the area at the time of his death, for that matter, is a suspect.”
“Well, I was here, all day. I had a meeting in the morning, and in the afternoon I was absorbed in dealing with a problem that has arisen over a shared water pump that appears to have been contaminated by sewage. If called for, I could probably supply witnesses,” Mr Peel looked unimpressed at being accused of the crime.
“You were never really a suspect in our minds,” Clara reassured him. “But we have to be thorough. How did Mr Beech seem when last you saw him?”
“Same as always,” Peel shrugged. “He was quiet, a little moody. His rheumatics were bothering him again, because of the damp. He kept saying ‘a man has no right growing old,’ but that was a phrase he liked to say a lot. We never took much heed of it.”
“He did not seem troubled by anything?” Clara pressed.
To his credit, Peel gave this some thought before he answered in the way Clara had expected.
“No, he didn’t seem troubled.”
“Did he ever talk about Mr Spinner?” Tommy asked.
“The farmer he worked for?” Peel cocked his head at the name. “He never spoke about anybody. That was not William’s way.”
“What about money? Did he ever suggest he was having trouble keeping up with paying housekeeping?” Tommy pressed.
“That is definitely not something he would discuss with me,” Peel said firmly. “My future father-in-law believed money and the trouble it caused was a private matter and was not to be discussed with people outside the family. Or even within the family, for that matter. Hanna used to get frustrated that she could never discuss their finances with her father.”
“What sort of thing did she want to discuss?” Clara asked.
Peel looked as if he was not going to answer, then he spoke.
“Everyone has to discuss money at times. Hanna wanted to buy more coal, to keep the house warmer for William, but that would mean asking him for extra money. He refused. He said he could survive without coal.”
Samuel Peel was solemn for a moment, thinking of another time and place.
“You know, we both assumed it would be the dampness in the house, the chilliness, that would be the end of him. That’s why Hanna wanted more coal,” he shook his head, trying to loosen the thought from his mind. “Goes to show you never know what will come for you.”
That was a macabre notion, enough to put everyone into a reflective silence for a few moments.
“What will you and Hanna do now?” Tommy asked when they had dwelled on the alarming unpredictability of the future for long enough.
“I shall have to discuss it with her. Naturally, we have been thinking about marriage for a while.”
“Mr Beech was a complication in those plans?” Clara asked.
Samuel gave her a soft smile.
“We were in no rush. Hanna was devoted to her father and would not see him left to fend for himself. We knew he could not have many more winters left.”
“Yet, every time he seemed on death’s door he rallied. He was a tough old bird. Must have seemed as if you would never be free of him,” Tommy suggested bluntly.
Samuel did not lose his calm composure. He switched his attention to Tommy.
“I did not wish his death. Nor did Hanna. I suppose that is something people are saying? Well, they are wrong. When Hanna nearly lost him from pneumonia, she was in a terrible state. I was worried for her. In truth, the death of William would bring more problems than it would solve, at least in the short-term,” Samuel paused. “How is Hanna taking her father’s death?”
“She seemed stoic,” Clara said.
“That is what I feared. She is very much like her father and does not wish to reveal her emotions to others. I must go to see her tonight. I wish she had sent me word, but I am not surprised she did not. She would not wish to have bothered me,” Samuel sighed. “Hanna is stubborn and independent, like most country folk. It is how they survive.”
There seemed no more to discuss. Clara thanked Mr Peel and she made her departure with Tommy. Outside, in the empty forecourt, Tommy scuffed a toe on the tarmacadam.
“What now?”
“I don’t know,” Clara admitted. “Mr Spinner still appears to be our only likely suspect. Maybe we should catch up with Marjorie and see if there is any news about what happened to her dog? She did ask us to investigate, after all.”
That seemed as good a plan as any, so they headed back to Hangleton and to the office of the local vet. The vet was currently engaged in a battle to clip a parrot’s overgrown beak when they arrived, and there was considerable commotion coming from his consulting room. The door was closed, but it was possible to hear the vet relaying instructions to the fraught owner, over the shrieks of an irate bird. The pandemonium persisted for some time, until there was a distinct clipping sound and the matter was at last resolved. The door to the consulting room opened and a dishevelled older gentleman in a brown suit emerged, clutching a covered parrot cage, and nursing a badly bleeding hand. Behind him the vet, a young, spindly fellow, was distractedly wrapping a bandage around his own bleeding appendage.
“The bill shall be in the post, Mr Stump,” he said. “Make sure you wash that hand well when you get home.”
The old man departed, and the vet turned his attention on Clara and Tommy.
“Hello, here to register a pet?” He asked.
“Not as such,” Clara said, stepping forward and making the relevant introductions.
“We are here concerning the unfortunate Betty. Miss Piers has asked us to investigate the death of the dog.”
“Oh yes,” the vet nodded. “She arrived here most upset this morning. The Piers are very fond of their dogs. Would you care to come through?”
He stood back and motioned for them to enter the consulting room. It was bigger than Clara had expected, with a sturdy table in the centre and lots of cabinets all about the walls containing various medicinal treatments or veterinary instruments.
“Do you purely treat pets?” Tommy asked as he looked around the room.
“Oh no. I serve the farms as well. I took over this practice when the previous owner retired last summer. It has been quite a whirlwind getting the hang of everything. The filing system was very… peculiar,” the young vet grinned. “My wife is usually here acting as my receptionist. However, she is currently occupied looking after a litter of abandoned kittens that were discovered the other day under a hedge. I apologise for things being a little unprofessional, in that regard.”
“Do not fret,” Clara reassured him, wondering how such a scrawny fellow, who looked like a sharp breeze might knock him down, was able to cope with protesting farmyard animals. “We shan’t take up too much of your time. Can you tell us what killed poor Betty?”
“Very easily,” the vet assured them. “She was hit by a car, I should say. Her black coat masked what little blood there was. My surmise is she was knocked about the head and chest. There was damage around the left eye, and I could feel the skull was smashed in several places.”
Tommy attempted not to grimace at the thought of the vet poking and prodding Betty’s head to determine her injuries.
“It was quick, I should think,” the vet added.
“Are there many cars around these parts?” Clara asked.
“A handful. Squire Piers has one, actually, but I don’t think it is used often. A couple of the local landowners have vehicles, and we do see people travelling here from Hove in cars.”
“But not at night,” Tommy pointed out.
“No,” the vet agreed, still smiling. “Sorry I could not be more helpful.”
“On the contrary, you have offered us a starting point to
begin our investigation,” Clara reassured him. “We just now need to discover who would take that dead dog and lay it at Mr Spinner’s doorstep.”
“Marjorie told me about that,” the vet pulled a face to display his disgust. “You have to wonder about the mindset of someone who would do such a thing.”
“Supposing they thought the dog belonged to Mr Spinner?” Tommy suggested, the idea suddenly coming to him. “They thought they were returning the dog?”
“Everyone around here knows Spinner does not keep dogs, doesn’t have time for them,” the vet said with a look on his face that implied Spinner’s anti-dog stance had marked him down in the young man’s books.
“Could have been a stranger to the area? If the dog was hit near the farm, they might have just assumed,” Tommy pointed out.
“Strangers don’t drive around here in the dark,” the vet shook his head. “That’s the second terrible thing to have happened near that farm. No wonder some of the locals are calling it a cursed place.”
“You are referring to the murder of Mr Beech?” Clara asked.
“I am,” the vet seemed to shiver. “Old man Beech was what I would have termed a natural animal man. Who do you think it was brought me the kittens?”
Clara felt as if the air had been knocked out of her for a second.
“You saw Mr Beech on the day he died?”
The vet considered her question.
“Yes, I suppose it was. That was the fourteenth? Yes, he came into my surgery about half nine with the kittens in his pockets. Asked if I could do anything for them. They had clearly been abandoned as they were wet and cold. A few more hours they would have been gone,” the vet gave a strange smile. “And instead, now they are thriving, and their saviour is…”
The vet cleared his throat awkwardly.
“That was quite a day. Later on, I was passing Spinner’s Farm on my bicycle, headed for another farmer some way up the road. I saw Mr Beech stood by the hedge where I later heard he died.”
“You saw him in the field that day?” Clara pressed, trying to mask her excitement at this turn of events. “What time was that?”
