The Valentine Murder

by Evelyn James

  “It is!” The garage man snapped, his knuckles turning white as he clutched his fingers so hard into a fist. “You’ve hit the nail on the head! A few irresponsible fools ruin it for every law-abiding soul.”

  “Of course, a bit of self-policing never hurts. If the responsible drivers point out the ones who are behaving badly, it looks better for them,” Tommy noted casually.

  “You have a fair point there. We must be alert to our own failings.”

  The garage man was tapping his fingers on the counter once more. His head tilted towards a window that showed the view from his office into the main garage. He could monitor the work from here without stepping outside this room, and if necessary, could open the window and call out to the workers. He stared out that window quite some time.

  Tommy guessed there was more to his gaze than just thoughtfulness and looked himself. He saw a car, raised up on wooden beams to enable the men to work beneath it easily. The workers were gone. They had noted the clock had reached five and were glad to be off home. The garage was deserted, the car abandoned in its raised position.

  “I am going to do this because I think the roads should be safe for everyone,” the garage man spoke.

  Tommy wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself, or if the softly spoken words were for his benefit. The garage man suddenly snapped his eyes back to Tommy.

  “Come this way.”

  He lifted a flap in the counter which allowed Tommy to pass through and then opened a door leading to a whitewashed brick corridor. There were two more doors directly ahead and one to their left. The garage man led them towards this single door, which opened into the garage.

  The large room was cold and made Tommy shiver after the relative warmth of the office. He was shown over to the car up on the ramps. It was an old Ford, the sort that looked put together from sheets of stamped tin.

  “Well?” The garage man asked him.

  It suddenly dawned on Tommy why he was being shown the car. He remembered himself and began walking around the vehicle, looking at it from different angles, scratching his chin in a way that he hoped appeared thoughtful. At the front end, he found himself looking at the radiator grille. He paused and stepped closer. He was certain, as he studied the metal bars of the grille in the orange glare of the lights overhead, that he could see black fur stuck beneath them. The grille had a nasty dent to it, quite large.

  “This is it,” Tommy said, the comment mostly for himself, but the garage man heard.

  “Feared as much,” he said. “This car belongs to Miss Bright, of Runcorn House.”

  The garage man came and stood beside Tommy.

  “She brought it in this morning. Said she had run into a tree and damaged the grille. You can see the damage for yourself. She is a reckless driver, always doing something to this car. She goes through tyres like there is no tomorrow.”

  “Would she have reason to be driving past Spinner’s Farm at night?” Tommy asked.

  “That’s just it. She heads into Brighton quite frequently to see her aunt. The road she takes runs right past Spinner’s place.”

  They both stared silently at the car.

  “It was dark, of course,” Tommy began, “and you can never be certain, but I would say that is my dog’s hair in the grille.”

  Tommy moved forward and pulled a piece loose. It was short and black, just the sort of hair a Labrador like Betty had.

  “We didn’t think much of it,” the garage man motioned to the hair. “What will you do?”

  “Pay Miss Bright a visit and see what she has to say for herself,” Tommy said firmly. “You say she has had accidents in the past.”

  “A few,” the garage man shrugged. “None ever involved anyone who was hurt before.”

  “Then she has had had fair warning that her driving was cause for concern,” Tommy said confidently, of course, it was not Miss Bright’s driving that really interested him, it was her disposal of the dog after she hit it. “If she will not be warned then perhaps it is time more serious steps were taken.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” the garage man wobbled.

  “I mean involving the police,” Tommy reassured him. “Sometimes, seeing the boys in blue taking an interest is enough to spark people’s sense of responsibility. If they have one, of course.”

  “You won’t say that I sent you to her, will you? She is a good customer.”

  Considering the amount of accidents she had, Tommy could well imagine that she supplied the garage with plenty of work.

  “I shall not say how I came to know she was involved,” Tommy promised him. “Where is Runcorn House?”

  “About two miles from here, I can give you directions easily enough. I just wish it had not come to this. All her little prangs in the past were of no harm to anyone but the car and her pocket. Why did she have to go hit a dog?”

  “A question I should like to ask,” Tommy agreed. “If you could give me those directions?”

  The garage man took him back into his office and produced a map of Hangleton. It was heavily creased and a little dirty, clearly used quite often, perhaps when sending out a driver to rescue a motorist who had broken down in the middle of nowhere. He showed Tommy where Runcorn House was and then walked with him out of the office.

  “Thank you for your time,” Tommy said

  The garage man watched him go with a forlorn expression, a defeated sigh escaping his lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Clara was back home, there had been nowhere else to go after her discussion with the inspector. The house was very still and empty without Tommy, Annie, or even little Bramble about. She kept looking up as if she heard someone moving in the hall, before remembering she was there all alone. Frustrated with her jumpiness, she set to work compiling a list of women who could conceivably have been in the field with Mr Beech. It proved short work. Aside from Hanna Beech, Ellen from Three Pigs and Mrs Spinner, Clara could think of no one who would have had a reason to be in that field on February fourteenth. She crossed off Hanna’s name at once; she had a watertight alibi, provided by the police. She toyed with crossing off Ellen too. She didn’t like thinking about Annie’s friend as a murder suspect, yet she did have the opportunity and maybe there was some disagreement between her and the old man they had yet to become aware of. She could have left the children for a short while to go see him, probably just to talk. Clara did not think this murder had been planned. The way Mr Beech’s tools had been used against him, she felt it more likely it was a crime of opportunity. Did Ellen go to see him and then argue with him? Did that argument turn into murder?

  Clara could not picture Ellen doing something so brutal. She had seemed a caring, considerate person who was under a lot of pressure currently. It would have to be a very urgent, pressing reason that called her away from her sick husband and young children.

  Clara pencilled a question mark beside her name, then turned her attention to Mrs Spinner. She seemed an even more unlikely candidate for the crime. Why would she kill the old man so savagely?

  Stumped by her own questions, Clara twisted the whole thought around in her head. Supposing the woman was not the killer? Supposing she had gone to the field just to talk with Mr Beech, or had even spotted him as she was passing and paused for a chat? That was a very innocent reason for being at the field. However, Clara was not satisfied with the explanation. First, why would the woman not come forward now and admit to speaking to Mr Beech? Was she afraid of someone, the real killer perhaps? Second, Mr Beech was not known for stopping to speak to people. He had been described time and time again as someone who kept themselves to themselves. He might have doffed his hat to a woman and said good morning, but to have a deep discussion with her over nothing important seemed improbable. And the locals knew he was like that, and since it was most likely the woman in the field was a local, why would she attempt a conversation with someone known to prefer silence?

  No, the more Clara considered it, the more she felt th
e woman had been there for a reason. She had not come across Mr Beech by accident, she meant to see him and her conversation with him must have been important enough to distract the normally silent man and cause him to speak with her. And if it was a particularly important conversation, that brought Clara back to the idea that whatever they were discussing was the spark that saw Mr Beech lose his life.

  Clara sighed at her list. It seemed to make things more confused in her mind than less. If only the vet could have offered her more details about the woman, but he was not a man who remembered those sorts of thing. If he had spotted a cat walking by the road he would probably have noted its size, suspected age, coat colour and gait, but a human being was just a blur to him, a thing he happened to see and then almost immediately forgot about. That was why the vet had not reported his sighting to the inspector. He had deemed it unimportant.

  Clara realised she had reached an impasse. No new clues were available to push her forward and what she had was too vague to help her. If only they had a motive for the crime. If they could only discover what Mr Beech had done with his money – who he had given it to – then they might have a firmer idea of who was behind his death.

  Despondent, Clara rose and was heading to the kitchen when she heard the letterbox clatter. She paused. It was the wrong time for the postman, and she was not expecting any messages. She walked over to the door and there on the mat was a folded note. It had been sealed with brown parcel tape to keep it folded. It bore no address, only a name – Clara Fitzgerald.

  Intrigued, Clara collected the letter and went to the parlour to read it. She popped it open and surveyed the contents curiously.

  Miss Fitzgerald,

  You do not know of me, but I have watched you about the farm recently. Mr Beech was a good man and he didn’t deserve to die. I am upset, like everyone and want to do my part in bringing justice to him. I don’t like Mr Spinner, that is no lie, and I think he done for Mr Beech. You need to speak to Mr Dundle in Brighton. He shall have answers for you.

  Yours,

  A Friend of Mr Beech.

  The letter was mysterious. Clara stared at it for a while, not reading the words, but mulling over the content. Was she to take this message seriously? There was no doubt that Mr Spinner had upset plenty of people in Hove and nearby Hangleton simply by his attitude and behaviour. Someone might have sent her this out of spite, not because they knew anything useful about the death of Mr Beech. Then again, when you were at a dead end, it didn’t pay to ignore any lead. It was unfortunate the letter writer had not considered providing her with an address for this Mr Dundle, however. She wondered just how many such people of that name were to be found in Brighton.

  She headed to the shelf where she kept her trusty street directory. The book contained the names of all the residents of Brighton and included their addresses and telephone numbers where relevant. It was divided into three sections. One section was sorted by street, and beneath each street name was a list of the residents who lived along it and their house number. The second section was sorted by occupation, people were listed under ‘blacksmith’, ‘butcher’, ‘scrap merchant’, etc. Public offices and their holders were also listed here, such as the mayor and the local magistrates. Finally, there was a third section that listed the names of residents alphabetically and gave their addresses and sometimes their occupation. The directory was particularly useful for finding people and Clara swore by it.

  She flipped to the D names in section three and scanned down until she came to ‘Dundle’. She was relieved that only three existed in Brighton, but that still meant two people she would have to contact and exclude from her enquiries, unless she got lucky and picked the right Dundle straightaway (and knowing Clara’s luck that would not be the case). Then she noticed that S. Dundle had the occupation of agricultural supplier listed by his name. She quickly flicked back to section two and found ‘agricultural supplier’ listed as a heading. Beneath it were a few names, but only one Dundle. A few more details had been added to this entry, Mr Dundle had presumably been prepared to pay for the extra text. His entry stated that he supplied all sorts of agricultural machinery to farms, to lease, hire or buy. Clara tapped her finger on the page.

  What were the odds this was not the Mr Dundle the letter writer was referring to? Well, it was worth a shot, anyway, and seeing as Mr S. Dundle was on the telephone that made things even easier.

  Clara rang the number listed, wondering if it was a business line, and thus would not be answered at this time of day. It was now gone five and most people were either heading home or already there. The phone rang for several seconds and she was close to giving up and trying again in the morning when a breathless voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Would that be Mr Dundle?” Clara asked.

  “It would. How can I help?”

  Mr Dundle sounded like he was still in his working guise, even though it was past the time for business.

  “My name is Clara Fitzgerald. I am a private detective who has been asked to take a look at a recent murder in Hove.”

  “Oh,” said Mr Dundle.

  “I have just received a rather peculiar note, and I assume it refers to you, but I could be wrong. Might I read out the relevant portion to you?”

  “Yes,” Mr Dundle said, his voice now nervous.

  “The letter is concerning Mr Spinner. The anonymous writer tells me to ‘speak to Mr Dundle. He shall have answers for you.’ The writer appears to believe this Mr Dundle will have information concerning the case.”

  “Well, I am not sure about that,” Mr Dundle said anxiously. “Who goes about writing anonymous notes?”

  “I don’t know, that is why I want to discuss this with you. If you are the correct Mr Dundle. Have you had any dealings with Mr Alastair Spinner?”

  Mr Dundle cleared his throat and he sounded as if he was shuffling his feet uneasily.

  “I am not really sure I should be discussing a customer with you.”

  “Then you do know Mr Spinner?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr Dundle cleared his throat again.

  “Is this about the murder of that old man in Hove? It was in the papers this morning.”

  “It is,” Clara said. “However, if it puts your mind at ease, I can assure you I am not working to the detriment of Mr Spinner. I have, in fact, been employed by him to prove his innocence. This accusation I have received, therefore, must be followed up and any information you could offer me would be useful.”

  “I really don’t know what I can say,” Mr Dundle replied. “I just supply Mr Spinner with farm machinery.”

  “What sort of machinery?” Clara asked quickly before he had time to think.

  “There was a milking machine. He had bought one from Sweden, but it was useless as it ran on a different voltage to our electricity, so he came to me and bought one. There was a beet cutting machine, electric also, and I supplied him with some heat lamps for his barn for orphan calves.”

  “That sounds rather expensive,” Clara noted. “How recently did he buy all this?”

  “Over the last couple of years,” Mr Dundle said unhappy to be discussing his customer but feeling he was dutybound to do so and help clear his name. “There was also a small tractor. Unfortunately, he was unable to keep up the repayments on that and I had to go up to the farm and take it back. I never like doing that, it is always upsetting. But Mr Spinner had overextended himself.”

  “I thought the farm was quite profitable?” Clara said, a leading question as she knew the truth.

  “So did I, but he missed three payments on the tractor. I remember going up there and saying I must take it back and he got upset. He didn’t like that some of his labourers were present and saw me taking it back.”

  Mr Dundle had become quite candid now he had started talking.

  “His wife cried. Said she was so ashamed by it all. I felt a blackguard, I honestly did.”

  “But he has been keeping up his payments fo
r the other items?”

  “Just about. He skipped a couple of months on those too and I was about to go collect the machines when he produced the money.”

  “Could you tell me how you received the money? Was it a postal order?”

  “No, he paid in cash.”

  “And he brought this to you? You didn’t have to go to the farm?”

  “Actually, his wife always brought the payments. After the upset with the tractor, I never spoke to Mr Spinner. I sent him a letter concerning the missed payments and then, maybe a week after, his wife called on me with the money. After that, every week, she would come with money for the repayments.”

  “You would have kept records of those payments and when they occurred?”

  “Yes,” Mr Dundle sounded even more worried.

  “I really need to see your accounts book Mr Dundle. This could be very important.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mr Dundle was extremely anxious now. “What has this to do with that murder?”

  “Please, Mr Dundle. That money may be the key to figuring out who killed Mr Beech. It may help prove Mr Spinner’s innocence.”

  Mr Dundle was silent, his indignation and worry radiating down the telephone line even with his lack of words. Clara had to try one last thing.

  “I think, Mr Dundle, that you are about to discover Mr Spinner will be lapsing once again with his repayments. If you want to help yourself and prevent a lot more trouble befalling you over this matter, I suggest you allow me to look at your books. Mr Spinner is not an easy man to get along with and I very much doubt he was pleasant when you had to go retrieve your tractor.”

  Mr Dundle sighed.

  “You seem to know a lot about Mr Spinner’s finances,” he grumbled.

  “I suspect I know far more than you do,” Clara said. “I need you to help me, Mr Dundle, please.”

  “You really think I am going to have to reclaim those items I supplied?”

  “I do. I would also advise against supplying Mr Spinner with anything else. You see, you don’t owe him any loyalty as he is a very poor customer.”