Goosey Goosey Gander

by Frank Edwards

  The two policemen called on Farmer at his home. Hole’s style was always to give notice of his coming whenever he could. He acknowledged, and had heard argued at many a seminar, that surprise could catch out the unwary. ‘But’, he always counter-claimed, ‘in my experience, I’d rather give notice. For most people, those who want nothing else than to be helpful, it makes the atmosphere less threatening. Threatening to them, even when they have nothing at all they wish to hide from you. We tend to forget that, especially to the innocent, a sudden police visit can be frightening. It’s so easy to get worked up.’ He said this to his sergeant.

  “Even so,” Maitland had replied, “I can see all that, but maybe a warning makes it worse. They’ve got the waiting time, between the notice and our calling, to stew over things. Get het up that way. Worry unnecessarily.”

  “OK. But take it from me, and it may be to do with the part of the world in which we work and the sort of people that we are usually dealing with, I have found that giving notice of interviews, when in their own homes that is, brings the best results. If someone’s going to hide something, then it’s up to us to spot it. Prise it out. Remember, always up our sleeve, is the great phrase ‘I’d like you to accompany me to the station’. That is often the clincher when we sense that something is being deliberately hidden.”

  “Except with the hard case.”

  “Granted. But we can’t thump it out of them any more. If we ever did”, he hurriedly added. “So, gently – gently.”

  Mrs Farmer opened the door. She knew Hole. No warrant cards needed to be flashed imperiously. Hole introduced Doug Maitland, and in they went.

  “Do I have to go over it all again?” asked the harassed Farmer.

  “Please. What time was it? About eight, you said in your first statement. How near eight? And how can you be so sure?”

  “Because I say so.” This from Mrs F. “Unless he went gallivanting off with his lady friend on the way,” pause for suitable laughter, “he would have been in those fields with those sheep of his no later than eight o’clock. ‘Why’s the need to go so early every day?’ I always ask him. But it’s always the sheep. ‘Got to see to ‘em proper’ he always says. And that’s what he does. Good is my George like that.” Mr Farmer agreed with his wife. So, eight o’clock it was.

  “A nice morning. Red in the sky. Warning, they always say. Still, it were a nice morning.”

  “And you saw Alan’s boat? What caught your eye especially?”

  “The way it were drifting. Not a drifter was Alan. I saw him many a morning, but he was rarely near enough to call out to. This day he was coming over to see me. Or so I first thought.”

  “You saw nothing else? On that far bank. The other side of the river. No movement of any kind?”

  “Can’t say that I did. Nor heard nothing neither, before you ask.”

  “I was going to”, this from Maitland, joining in. “Surely you must have heard a rifle shot? Maybe as you were on your way to your sheep. A crack. A bang. Something. There wouldn’t be much noise here-abouts at that hour. A shot would sound out clear, I would have thought. We know the killer used a rifle. Almost certainly one for taking wild birds. We’ll get more details in a day or two, but there must have been a sound. They don’t fit silencers to them so far as I know.”

  “Nothing. The odd quack.”

  “Ah!” Hole came in. “Quacks. Ducks. Ducks and geese. Were they making any unusual noise? An unusual amount of noise, maybe? A gunshot would have sent them flying around with much fuss I would have thought.”

  “Can’t help you. I’ve told you all, twice, exactly what I saw and what I did. I saw nothing else. I heard nothing else, and I did nothing else. The ducks were quacking, but they always do, don’t they. Nothing special in that.” With that, for the moment, the policemen had to be satisfied.

  Their next port of call was at Wickton. This decidedly by appointment. Jeremy answered the door. Marcia would have preferred that they employed a parlour maid or, better still, a butler. That was to come. As it was, the host did the duty and took his guests through to where the chatelaine was seated by the grand, but empty fire place. The old Duke had not been so fixed in tradition not to have installed oil-fired central heating. ‘Can’t stand all that dusty bloody coal with bodies for ever fussing about adding lumps to the fire or poking at it’ he was reported to have declared.

  Marcia did not rise. It was her court. Hole wondered if he and his colleague would be allowed to sit. Jeremy signalled them to two official looking hard uprights; then he sat, at his ease, at Marcia’s side.

  “As you can see,” he hesitated; was it ‘Hole’, ‘Mr Hole’ or what? He settled for, “Inspector, we are at your service.”

  “Appreciated, sir. It has been a very sad business for you.”

  “Very. Very. But, fire away. Though I fear that there is not much either of us can add to what you already know.”

  “If anything at all”, put in Marcia. “If we can help… ” She graciously left the invitation hang.

  “Thank you. That morning, the morning Mr Alan Tewkes was killed, were either of you up at about half past seven to eight by any chance?”

  There was just enough of a pause to interest Hole.

  “No.”

  “Barely.”

  Now, which was which? The policeman mused. Marcia’s flat negative had sounded too certain. After all, it was not all that late in the day to have risen.

  “I see.” He always loved that meaningless answer. “So can I take it that neither of you saw anything of Mr Tewkes. From your splendid window here perhaps?”

  “It’s not in our way to spy on my late brother-in-law, Inspector.”

  “I wouldn’t suggest so for a minute. But there is a good view. We know that it was clear daylight by then and that the killer struck at about that time. No chance that you heard a gunshot at all?”

  Again he sensed a pause. For last-second thought? Then, from both, a slow ‘no’.

  “Or perhaps”, he pressed the line based on his knowledge of the way of birds, “you saw some sudden action among the geese and the ducks. Startled cries and quacks and birds taking off and landing suddenly?” Once more he had to wait a moment for his reply. It was a complete negative, as he had expected.

  Maitland tried one or two other lines. It seemed that they were scarcely awake at eight, and that such sounds as they heard were from the radio. Radio 4. They did not believe in breakfast television. Hole sensed that their word for that would be at their most polite, effete.

  The two left Wickton, on the face of it, with nothing. Their search of the gatehouse, among Alan’s things, would have to wait. The Tewkes’ were told that it would be freed to them to clear as soon as possible. In the car, Hole asked the sergeant for his impressions.

  “Fancy something more there, sir. I guess one of them was up and about. At that time. Reckon they won’t say, though. Something they feel might embarrass them if it came out. Or, again, it could be to do with what they stand to gain from Alan Tewkes’ death. I bet they could give us more than they are at present minded to.”

  “I can see that we are going to get along together very well indeed.”

  Chapter Nine

  he steady work went on. They were greeted at The Grange by a display of weaponry. All deep-polished wooden stocks and gleaming metal, all beautifully crafted and lovingly cleaned. DeLacey Thornley was proud of his grandfather’s legacy.

  “See there, young Hole!” Sergeant Maitland loved that title, realising also it meant his Inspector had his feet firmly on the local terrain. That would help. “I’ve shown you them before, I’m pretty sure. Splendid things, aren’t they.”

  “Could be the sort of murder weapon we are looking for, sir”

  DeLacey’s look was enough to quash Maitland. The sergeant was classified at once as one who knew little about guns. His boss broke in.

  “We’ll know very soon exactly what we’re looking for in the way of the murder weapon. From what we h
ave heard so far, and don’t forget George Farmer is not your average ignorant onlooker, I doubt me very much if the shot that saw off Alan Tewkes was a 16-bore.”

  “Absolutely right, Inspector, as I should properly call you when on duty.” DeLacey turned to Maitland. Here was a new audience to be educated.

  “These guns of mine are 16-bore. A gauge that never caught on in this country, though you’ll find ‘em on the continent. If you discover that a 16-bore did the deed then I suspect that a foreigner will be involved. This pair have not been fired to purpose for a while now. You won’t find your cartridge – I take it you’ve recovered it; if not the needle gets smaller and the haystack enormous – matching either of these barrels.” He went on to enthral the supposedly uneducated sergeant with the glories of Holland & Holland and, more specifically, the fruits of Mr Perkes’ patent of 1878.

  Thornley had seen nothing, had heard nothing, had never been to ‘Tewkes’ place’, and had no idea who would go so far as to want him dead.

  “Plenty would go along with any scheme to shut him down,” he confessed. “Would myself. Indeed, have made enquiries in that direction. No secret there. The old Duke’s land gave good sport, and not just to us landowners. All over now, of course. What was a fine and fair sport all gone, to save a few of his ruddy ducks. Plenty more where they come from. Controlled shooting by those who know the countryside and its ways, how properly to harvest it, does only good. Best way to preserve the bird population, believe me.” Thornley drew breath, and carried on. “Ask that man Farmer you just mentioned. He’ll tell you how things were. Like many other locals, he’d take a gun out when he could. Then there are poachers.

  Don’t go much with them. Don’t know the rules, but they’re part of the rural scene. So, my dear Inspector, give or take a few rogues, you’ve got a job on if you’re going to try and match whatever shot you’ve got with every gun in the County, leave alone in the country. Time was when folk came quite a way to shoot this part of the river. Quite a few from Wales. I don’t envy you trying to cover that lot.”

  Hole couldn’t resist a grin at the old man’s assertions, while noting his vehemence. Enough to drive him to shoot anyone? His means would, surely, be political. He would enjoy that more. Nice to see your defeated target still walking around. Smarting. Yet, when someone of his generation thinks a whole way of life is unexpectedly and so thoroughly threatened, how near is the edge between reason and the irrational?

  “Right enough,” Hole continued. “The field is wide. There’ll be other factors, other evidence, to help whittle the field down. Then we should be able to match barrel and cartridge.”

  “If they’ve still got the gun! Damned if I’d hang on to a weapon that had just blown off someone’s head.”

  “Not even these beauties, sir?” innocently put in Maitland.

  “Different thing altogether! As for your common or garden gun these days, why, you can get one for under five hundred. Was talking to the older Tewkes about it only the other day. Said he was buying a new pair. The two for no more than a thousand. At that rate it would pay to buy a new gun just for the killing of a chap and then heave it down any old deep hole. I don’t envy you. It’s a big world out there.”

  “Yet one which, with your specialist knowledge and experience, you could help us navigate.”

  “Of course. Of course. Love to. Do know my onions, and not ga-ga yet. Call whenever you want. If it’s advice on fowling pieces you’re looking for, then I’m not so out of touch as to be out of date. Still subscribe to Shooting Times. Not much in that world I don’t get to hear of. From the magazine or old contacts when we get together. Still enough of us left to sink a few whiskies and exchange a few opinions. Tough lot your sportsmen.”

  The two policemen got little else from the former Councillor but, as they were about to leave, the squire put in a further comment.

  “Take a good shot, you know. To pop one right through the head like that. Not easy at the best of times, and when the target’s bobbing about on a boat, damned tricky I would say.”

  “Maybe not bobbing”, replied Hole. “It was a flat-bottomed thing, and in very shallow waters just at the edge of the reeds.”

  “At what range, do you reckon? If so close – forgive me, I don’t pretend to be a detective – why didn’t Tewkes see the fellah and duck?”

  Hole gave this a moment’s thought. He had turned just such a picture over in his mind a few times already.

  “Probably wouldn’t see him because he was concentrating on something. If what I’ve been told so far is true, then it was almost certainly a nesting swan he was checking on. He would be as still as the boat would let him be, and his eyes would be downwards, looking at the nest most likely.”

  “What’s more”, added Maitland, who had shared his boss’ line of reconstruction, “if he looked up he would be looking straight into the rising sun. The killer had it made. Standing with the sun behind and showing up his target to perfection.”

  “Still take a good, steady shot. To be that accurate.”

  “He could have fired again had the first missed.” Hole had thought this through also. “Plenty of time. He would have known that he wasn’t observed and there must have been a well-rehearsed escape route ready.”

  “Given that,” the old shooter persisted, “it still took a damned fine shot. Lucky, perhaps, but I doubt me. You don’t get more than one shot at a flying bird.”

  “He wasn’t flying, sir, was he?” put in Maitland. “Sitting as still as he could in a flat-bottomed boat in shallow water.”

  “Gun still had to fire down. I take it that killer was on the bank. Standing or lying? Change the line of fire. Bit of field craft should settle that for you, unless your clodhoppers have trampled everything flat.” Hole frowned, but made no comment on scene-of-crime procedure. Thornley went on. “You don’t suspect a separate craft do you? One that sneaked up behind him as he was watching his waders or whatever?”

  “Farmer would have seen it. No. What really gets me in this set-up,” said Hole, “was how the killer knew exactly where to stand. Or lie. We won’t overlook that search! And when to be there. Right time in the right spot, if you get me. Exactly where Tewkes was going to be parked. Stationary and absorbed.”

  “Many people have pottered through his gates since the business began. Lots of school kids, I grant you. I don’t hold out much hope for the younger generation, no manners and less respect where due, but I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse any of them of killing Tewkes. Any one planning murder there could have visited more than once. Spied out the land. Learned of Tewkes’ particular interest and habits, and been there, as you say Hole, at the right time and in the right spot.”

  “We’ll be checking visitor records so far as we can. Not yet so many, possibly, that the good ladies who help out might not recall any who came more than once. I’ll be signing you up for the CID yet.” With that last remark leaving a pleased smile on their host’s face, the two coppers left The Grange.

  As they walked back to their car, Hole commented:

  “That’s as much as I would want or could expect at this stage. He’s too prominent to leave out of the loop. The sooner he’s drawn in the more likely is it that he will give us a lead. However accidentally. Unless he’s not letting on, despite his harangue, just how strongly he feels about this so-called loss of a traditional way of life. Interesting about Jeremy Tewkes, though. Wonder what he did do with his old guns? Hardly donate them to charity.”

  “He’s one of those who can shoot pretty well.”

  “One among many. As is Thornley.”

  Maitland noted the Rolls as they rejoined the main road. Professionally. Automatically. Something about the index number caught his eye. The letters CKC figured, over largely, in it. He had just time to sense rather than see that it was turning down in the direction of the wetlands centre before they were out of sight. A visitor? Not everyone would know of the death, he supposed or, if they did, that the centre was clos
ed as a result. Could be a voyeur. But driving a Rolls? The driver had been alone. No chauffeur, unless it had been the chauffeur at the wheel.

  “Dead! Killed! You shock me. Why, it was no more than a week or so that I was here.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said the polite Mrs Munday. “A great shock to us all.”

  “An accident?”

  Mrs Donlevy was eager to join in the telling of the tale to a newcomer to the story.

  “Shot through the head. Clean. Just the one bullet. Imagine! Horrible! With blood all over his face as George Farmer, what found him, says.”

  The two ladies had decided to share the role asked of them through the good offices of Galina. As there was no need to run the reception office, they came together, did whatever it was seemed best for the birds, cluck – clucked along with their charges, and made their way home together, usually calling in on the way to up-date Mrs Carmichael, and to learn what her network had gathered that day. They would have something to tell her this day. Something of a gent. Not a real gent, but a rich one.

  “And him coming back so soon after his first visit. Well now!” was the shopkeeper’s remark.

  “Couldn’t forget him. His car if not his face. Don’t see too many of them coming up and down Goose Lane!”

  Gresham Reed was disturbed by the news. Sad, in a sort of way, that Alan Tewkes was no more, but he was much more concerned about the implications for the ownership of the land. He sensed that there would be complications. There always were. The more so in the case of such a juicy murder as the two good ladies had regaled him with. The death raised a myriad of concerns. He had not lingered. He had nothing to say, and certainly nothing that was to do with the reason for his visit. How had he missed this story in the national press? Easy enough, of course. He had been visiting two European countries on an outsourcing mission. At least it provided him with an alibi. Not that he had any need of one, but the safer, the safer still. Business rumours can become very damaging very quickly. Following his continental trip, he had made straightaway for this hoped-for new site. Until that was tied up, and he couldn’t hang about much more, he was unable get on with other things in his pipe line. This murder malarkey was a blow. It could be of a serious nuisance value. But, then again, it might well make everything simple. Depended on whose land it now became. And how soon that would be settled. Who best to ask?