A Six-Letter Word for Death

by Patricia Moyes

  “You couldn’t possibly have heard a car on the road.” Henry was very interested. “The Carnworth cars are kept at the back, by the stables. The Bentley and the Jaguar are in garages, but there’s a big parking area for visiting cars.”

  “Dr. Cartwright’s and Fred Coe’s.”

  “Exactly. Our room was toward the back of the house. You could have heard if one of the cars from the Manor had started up.”

  “But wouldn’t it have had to come round to the front and down the drive?”

  “No,” Henry said. “There’s a back entrance to the estate. You’ve no idea what time this was?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’m sorry. I never even thought about it until you started telling the sergeant about somebody going to the cliff path and tampering with evidence between your visit and Sir Robert’s.”

  “Well,” said Henry, “it doesn’t really matter. It’s just confirmation of what I was sure of all along. Somebody from the Manor—”

  “Cartwright or Coe.”

  “Not necessarily. People can borrow other people’s cars. Or it could have been one of the family.”

  “Henry, you’re not suggesting—?”

  “No, I’m not. Just thinking.”

  The tiny village of St. Lawrence lies on the clifftop, between Ventnor and The Needles. It is hardly large enough to be classed as a village, but it has a church, a pub, and a cluster of cottages. In the vicinity, a few retired people have built themselves comfortable homes in one of the few remaining quiet and unspoiled areas of the island.

  It took only the briefest of inquiries at the pub to locate the Turnberry house. Down a rutted lane, with a left turn at the end, and there it was—an old renovated farmhouse, surrounded by a well-tended flower and vegetable garden of about half an acre. Henry pulled up outside the garden gate, and he and Emmy climbed out of the car.

  The house was very quiet, but Henry was relieved to see that the curtains had not been drawn in an ostentatious show of mourning. All the same, he felt like an intruder as he rang the front doorbell. Weren’t these people entitled to privacy in their grief? What good would it do to probe them with questions, to raise doubts about their tragic loss? Then he remembered that when you start unraveling a string of events, there is no knowing where it may lead, and he might—just might—be saving another family from bereavement. He also remembered that they were doomed to a visit from Sergeant Hemming anyway, so their afternoon was going to be shattered, one way or the other.

  The door was answered almost immediately by a tall man with a square-jawed, sunburned face. He looked taken aback when he saw Henry and Emmy.

  “Mr. Turnberry?” Henry said.

  “I saw the car driving up,” said Turnberry. “I thought it must be…” His voice had no soft West Country burr to it, but rather the brisk, self-assured accent of a middle-class London suburb. “I’m afraid I don’t know you, sir, and obviously you don’t know us, or what’s happened to us, or you wouldn’t be here. I don’t want to be rude,” he added with obvious sincerity, “but the fact is that I shall have to ask you and the lady to leave. You see, our son was killed yesterday, and my wife…well, I’m sure you understand.”

  “I understand and I know, Mr. Turnberry,” Henry said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Who are you, then?”

  Henry pulled out his official identity card and handed it over to Turnberry, who studied it with an expression of growing disbelief.

  At last he said, “Scotland Yard? Criminal Investigation Department? But there’s been no crime here. It was an accident.”

  “Please let us come in,” said Henry. “I must talk to you.”

  “And who’s the lady?” Turnberry went on. “A policewoman, is it?”

  “No, my wife.”

  “First time I’ve heard of a detective taking his wife along on an investigation.” Turnberry’s voice bristled with suspicion, and Henry could not blame him.

  Emmy said, “Mr. Turnberry, this isn’t an official investigation. My husband and I were spending the weekend at Carnworth when…when it happened. But my husband isn’t sure that things are just what they seem to be. So—”

  “If it’s not an official investigation, then I don’t see why I should talk to you. I’m expecting Sergeant Hemming, it’s true, with Peter’s things. But as for you—”

  Mr. Turnberry’s considerable bulk pretty well filled the doorway, but Henry was aware of somebody in the hall behind him. A woman’s voice, gentle and sad, said, “Let them in, James.”

  Turnberry swung around. “Nora,” he said, “you’re supposed to be upstairs resting.”

  “I said let them in, James.”

  “Oh, very well.” James Turnberry stood back to allow the Tibbetts to enter. He said, “Nora, this is Chief Superintendent…er…”

  “Tibbett,” said Henry. “Henry Tibbett. And this is my wife, Emmy. You are very kind to agree to see us, Mrs. Turnberry.”

  Nora Turnberry was plump but still pretty. Her gray hair was drawn back into an old-fashioned bun at the nape of her neck, and her smooth, scarcely wrinkled face bore only the merest suggestion of makeup. Unlike Pamela Oppenshaw, she had not been able to go straight to her wardrobe and select a black dress. Instead she wore a gray skirt and white blouse—the nearest thing to mourning that she could muster at short notice. She smiled at the Tibbetts—a sad smile, but sweet.

  “Do please come in,” she said. “I’m sorry James was not very welcoming. This has been a great shock to us, as you’ll appreciate. James, take Mr. and Mrs. Tibbett into the lounge, and I’ll make a cup of tea.”

  At half past two in the afternoon, this seemed less than suitable—but tea is the traditional English welcome and not to be refused. While Nora Turnberry was in the kitchen, her husband sat in the comfortable drawing room with his visitors, glowering at them in silence. Emmy was glad when Nora reappeared, bearing a tray with four cups, a teapot, a milk pitcher, and a sugar bowl. When the strong brew had been poured, Nora said, “I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying to James, Mrs. Tibbett.”

  “I know this must be very distressing for you—” Henry began.

  Nora Turnberry cut him short. “I’m glad you came. I think there was something funny about Peter’s death.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, and I’ll tell you why. Peter knows that cliff path like the back of his hand, and heaven knows he’s ridden Melly often enough not to make any silly mistakes.”

  “But the saddle girth broke, Mrs. Turnberry.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Nora Turnberry sounded almost serene in her certainty. “Peter was too good a rider to have mounted and set off on a long ride without checking over his gear. In any case, he always liked to saddle the horse himself, groom or no groom. It’s only since he’d taken up with the Carnworth set—”

  Henry said, “How long does the ride from Carnworth take, Mrs. Turnberry?”

  “A good two hours or more, if you come by the usual cross-country route and take things moderate to easy. Quite a bit less if you take the cliff path and push your horse.”

  “I’m wondering,” Henry said, “why Peter rode over to see you yesterday afternoon. He can’t have spent long here.”

  “He didn’t. Not more than a few minutes. I couldn’t understand it. I saw him riding up, and I said to Father—didn’t I, James?—I said, ‘Why, there’s Peter come for the afternoon, maybe to stay the night. I’ll get him a cup of tea.’ But all he says is, ‘Hello, Mother, sorry I can’t stay,’ and he goes rushing up to his room. ‘Just fetching something,’ he says, and he’s downstairs and off again. Said he had an appointment at five, but where, I don’t know. Melly had just got her head down into some of the nice grass in our meadow—”

  Henry said, “He didn’t tether the horse?”

  “Bless you, no. Melly knows this place well. She wouldn’t go off on her own. She likes it here.”

  Henry and Emmy exchanged a quick glance. Then Henry said, “You’ve no id
ea what it was that Peter came to fetch?”

  Nora Turnberry shook her head. “None at all. Since it must have been something that would go in his pocket, I naturally thought of a letter or paper or such—but that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Sergeant Hemming will be coming to see you this afternoon,” Henry said.

  “I told you that.” This was James Turnberry’s first contribution to the conversation.

  “He told me,” said Henry, “that he’s bringing all of Peter’s things—the contents of his pockets. There’s nothing but keys, a wallet, a handkerchief. Nothing like papers or a letter.”

  Ponderously, James Turnberry said, “Look, Mr. Tibbett. We’re just ordinary folk. Not like the Carnworth Manor set. I daresay Lady Oppenshaw told you.”

  “She said you owned a chain of stores,” said Emmy.

  Turnberry gave an unamused laugh. “She did, did she? I’ll tell you what I am, Mrs. Tibbett—I’m a retail butcher, and a bloody good one, though I say it myself, and excuse the language. I had six shops in the Ealing area of London, which I sold a few years ago. Now I got two here on the island. I’m semiretired, and I leave the running to the managers—but I keep an eye on the quality of the meat, you can be sure. A chain of stores, indeed! No, we’re simple people and we never thought Peter would turn out like he did—scholarships and Oxford and all that. Certainly never thought he’d end up engaged to Sir Robert’s daughter, but that’s the way life goes. One thing I’ll say for him—he was never ashamed of us, was he, Mother?”

  Mrs. Turnberry did not answer, but turned away, her eyes full of tears. James Turnberry went on, “Brilliant. That’s what they all said about him at these posh places. And very soon he’d have been a proper lawyer. Well, I’m a God-fearing man, Mr. Tibbett, and I suppose the Almighty knew what he was doing, but I’m blowed if I can see why he should take a young life like that, just as it was starting, as you might say.”

  “Nor do I,” said Henry, and he sounded grim. “Well, very many thanks for the tea, Mrs. Turnberry, and for your kindness. We’d better be going now.” He stood up, hesitated a moment, then said, “I wonder if you’d do me a great favor, Mr. Turnberry?”

  “If I can, Mr. Tibbett.”

  “When the date and time of the inquest are fixed, would you call and let me know? Here’s my card.”

  In the hall, saying good-bye, Henry said, “By the way, Mr. Turnberry—just one more question.”

  “Yes?” Turnberry sounded suspicious again.

  “When you opened the door to us, you said you’d seen the car driving up, and thought you knew who was coming to visit you.”

  “Well…I had an idea…”

  “You recognized the car, did you?”

  “No, no. I don’t know what sort of car he has. I just thought that perhaps he’d come over and see us before he left the island, seeing that he and Peter were so close at one time.”

  “Who is ‘he,’ Mr. Turnberry?”

  It was Nora Turnberry who answered. “Why, Professor Vandike, of course. He was staying at the Manor, so Peter told us.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, he was. You say he and Peter were very close?”

  Nora Turnberry said, “It was he who—”

  Her husband interrupted her. “He was Peter’s tutor, up at Oxford. Thought the world of him. Used to take him for holidays during the vacations, rock climbing and suchlike, in Wales, wasn’t it, Mother?”

  “That’s right, James,” said Nora.

  “So we thought,” James Turnberry went on, “that it might be only natural for him to come and see us. But—”

  “I’m afraid he won’t,” Henry said. “He left for Oxford this morning.”

  “Ah, well, why should he, really? We only met him the once, didn’t we, Mother?”

  “Yes, James. When—”

  “Well, you’ll be wanting to be off, I daresay, Mr. Tibbett.”

  After leaving the Turnberrys, Henry drove back toward Ventnor. Shortly before Carnworth, however, he surprised Emmy by taking a left turn up a small lane.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Carnworth Manor.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “I know I did, but there’s something I must know.”

  Another turn—to the right, this time—and Emmy saw that they were approaching the back entrance to Carnworth Manor, which led to the stableyard and parking area. Henry drove slowly past the gate, and noticed with approval that the police car was parked there. As he had hoped, Sir Robert was closeted with Sergeant Hemming. He stopped the car at the side of the road, out of sight of the gate.

  “What do we do now?” Emmy asked.

  “We wait,” said Henry.

  They did not have to wait long. A couple of minutes later, a jaunty boy on a bicycle came riding out of the back gate, whistling merrily. Henry was relieved to see that it was not the stable lad with whom he had talked. As the bicycle approached the car, Henry got out and called, “Hey!”

  The bicycle stopped, the boy dragging his feet in the dusty lane as brakes. “Wot is it, then?”

  “Want to earn fifty p.?” Henry asked.

  The boy hesitated. “It’s me afternoon off,” he said. “What’s it about, then?”

  “Won’t take you a moment.” Emmy noticed that Henry, who was a good mimic, had lowered his accent a little in the social scale, and roughened it with a suggestion of vulgarity. He sounds like a cheap salesman, she thought.

  “Orl right, then, let’s hear it,” said the boy.

  Henry said, “You know Mr. Timmond?”

  “’Course I do.”

  “He’s in the stables, is he?”

  “Where else would ’e be?”

  “Well, there’s fifty p. for you if you go in and ask him to come out here and have a word. Tell him it’s the feed salesman who called this morning.”

  “Why can’t you drive in and see ’im yerself?” asked the boy.

  Henry winked. “Ask no questions, lad, you’ll be told no lies.”

  This indication of something a little fishy afoot intrigued the young man.

  “Okeydoke,” he replied. “Let’s have the cash, then.”

  “Money-grubbing little brute,” said Henry amiably, and handed over the coin. The lad wheeled his cycle around, mounted again with an athletic leg thrown into the air, and went back through the gate. A minute later he was out again and on his way, with a cheery thumbs-up sign. Quite soon he was followed by Timmond, wiping earthy hands on his ancient breeches. He came up to the car.

  “Mr. Tibbett? This is a surprise, sir.”

  Henry said, “I couldn’t come in. I don’t want anybody at the Manor to know that I haven’t left the island. You understand?”

  “Of course, sir. Not that you need have worried. Sir Robert’s with Sergeant Hemming now, so Sowerby tells me.”

  “Yes, but he won’t be forever. What’s more, Hemming is going to come and have a word with you afterwards.”

  “He is?”

  “He is. I saw him this morning, and I told him… well, anyway, he’s planning to see you.” Henry paused. “When he asks you questions, Timmond, be sure to reply accurately, but…well, don’t volunteer any more information than he asks for. Okay?”

  “Okay, sir.”

  “Now lean on the car window as though you were talking to a nuisance of a salesman, and if anyone from the Manor comes, I’ll drive off. I want you to tell me about car keys.”

  “Car keys?”

  “Yes. If a guest arrives at the Manor by car, he is decanted at the front door, and the car is whisked off to the back here by a footman or somebody.”

  “By Higgins, the chauffeur, sir.”

  “Okay. Now what happens to the keys?”

  “The keys are left in the car, sir. There’s always somebody on duty around here to see that nobody unauthorized takes a car out. And it means that Higgins can shift the cars around if need be, and also bring them to the front door if ordered.”


  “That’s what I thought,” said Henry. “Now, yesterday afternoon, can you remember what cars were moved, and by whom?”

  Timmond answered at once. “Sir Robert and Lady Oppenshaw ordered the Jaguar to be at the front door at three-fifteen, sir. And they brought her back at six, or thereabouts. The Bentley was in the garage all day, until the evening, when Sir Robert took her out to go to the lifeboat.”

  “And the other cars?”

  “Well, there was just the two, sir. Dr. Cartwright’s Lancia and Professor Coe’s Ford—bit of a rattletrap, if you ask me,” added Timmond.

  “And did either of them go out?”

  “Just the Lancia, sir. Dr. Cartwright drove her off at—oh, round about a quarter to four, it must have been. Yes, because I went in for a cuppa with Cook shortly after, and when I come out of the kitchen, the car was back.”

  “What time would that have been?”

  Timmond reddened slightly. “Well, it being Saturday, sir, I think I may have lingered a little. It would be about five, I’d say.”

  “Did you hear the car coming in?”

  “Can’t say I did, sir. She’s got a sweet-running engine, the doctor’s Lancia, and there’s always a bustle in the kitchen.”

  “Still, you’re sure it was Dr. Cartwright who drove out of the stableyard shortly before four?”

  Timmond scratched his head. “It was the Lancia, sir. I couldn’t tell you for certain who was driving it, because I only come out of the stables as it was turning off through the gate, and… I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, I told you this morning, we’re very satisfied with the feed we’re getting now.”

  Timmond nodded curtly and turned on his heel, as Henry let in the clutch and moved off down the road. In his rearview mirror, he could see that Barbara Oppenshaw had come riding out of the back gate on her chestnut mare. She stopped for a word with Timmond, who said something to her and went into the stableyard again. Barbara turned the mare in the other direction and was soon out of sight. She did not even glance at the little blue rental car.