‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say this,’ Bruce put in, ‘but as motives go it’s not a very strong one. Mrs Horner had little to leave and this house is small and run down. And – this is in confidence for the moment – she had raised a mortgage on it. If there’s any life assurance, I haven’t found a trace of it. Not a valuable legacy at all.’
‘Moreover,’ I said, ‘Mrs Bullerton is also adamant that her daughter really was in Venice that day and that she spoke to her there on the phone. Whether or not she would lie for her daughter is for you to decide.
‘The assistant in the shop, Mrs Judith Tolliver, told me that Ian Shute was also on the phone from Venice that morning. I don’t know whether she could have told the difference if he had phoned from here and told her that he was calling from Venice, but the Telecom records might tell you. And, of course, I don’t know whether Mrs Tolliver would lie for him. For all I know, they’re lovers.’
‘That’s not for you to worry about. As you implied, investigation is our business.’ As he spoke, Fraser was watching Blosson out of the corner of his eye. ‘All these aspects must be checked out, and thoroughly. Go on. Who else?’
‘There’s Mrs Bullerton herself,’ I said. ‘She seems to have been walking away from the scene around the time that we think Mrs Horner was killed. But she could have reversed her steps when she heard the lorry coming. And how certain can we be of the time? Could the voice have belonged to somebody other than Mrs Horner?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Fraser said.
‘The question was rhetorical,’ I said, ‘because, from what Mrs Guidman will tell you, I think that the murderer was probably a man. But not necessarily. The figure she saw was described to me as thickset and dark-haired. I don’t know Mrs Bovis by sight, but a busty woman can look thickset.’
‘Even at a distance,’ Fraser said, ‘the legs would give her away, surely.’
‘The legs would be hidden by the crop. Oilseed rape grows almost to waist height.’
Blosson jerked upright. ‘Then how do you suppose this Mrs – what is it? – Guidman saw the dog?’
He had a valid point and it gave me a jolt. Perhaps I had been coasting along too easily. ‘You’ll have to ask her that,’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen the view from her window.
‘Another point, if the killing was not premeditated, the murderer was almost certainly a man – a very local man, to have observed where Mr Branch threw his cigar end and where his dog decided to squat. It would spoil his plan to leave clues to somebody who was elsewhere that day. Very few women would have had a small cigar handy, ready to drop ash onto the dead woman’s back and add to the incrimination of Alistair Branch. I’m told that Mr Jordan was handing out small cigars to celebrate the birth of a granddaughter, but he would be unlikely to force them on the womenfolk.’
For all the ash that would have been needed,’ Fraser said, ‘anybody could have picked up another cigar butt. After the long drought, you could expect there to be a number lying where Mr Branch habitually walked. Not that I necessarily go along with the theory, I’m just making the point.’
‘Point taken,’ I said. ‘Mrs Horner’s nephew is supposed to have been sailing in the Adriatic with Mrs Bovis. When Mrs Bullerton asked to speak to him, her daughter said that he had gone for a walk. Whether or not he made a secret return visit here is a matter for you to check. If he got wind of the impending change to his aunt’s will – and, remember, he may not have known how short of money she was – he could have flown back to Britain, arrived here in darkness, hidden – perhaps in the empty house next door – and emerged to do the deed. There was a hired car parked near Seagrove Cottages, where Mrs Bullerton lives, on the Saturday. Allan Carmichael can provide you with a photograph.’
‘Well,’ Fraser said, ‘you’ve certainly suggested a few—’
‘I haven’t quite finished,’ I said.
Fraser sighed. ‘There’s more? Go on, then.’
‘I have been getting hints,’ I said, ‘that Mrs Horner had laid a complaint with the police about a dog having bitten her and that a summons had been issued. I understand that the incident was recent. You’ll notice that the pathologist mentioned a puncture wound without referring to it as a bite. I would suggest that she made the mark herself and showed it to her doctor. I presume that the death of the only witness will result in the summons being withdrawn.’
Fraser looked at Blosson. ‘Do we know of such a summons?’ he asked sharply.
Blosson hesitated but he must have reasoned that whatever enquiries he had made leading to his knowledge of the summons would be on record. ‘Mr Jordan,’ he said. ‘The end house.’
‘I hardly know the Jordans,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure that I’d recognize them if we met in the street. But I do know their dog. They leave him to board with us whenever they go away. A miniature apricot poodle called, for some reason, Hamlet. He’s a very charming little dog and loves people. His usual greeting is to butt you in the back of the leg. Mrs Horner, with her almost pathological hatred of dogs, might well have mistaken it for an attack and added an apparent tooth-mark to strengthen the case and increase the likelihood of a destruction order on the dog.’
‘But Mr Jordan’s a councillor,’ Fraser said. ‘He’s on the Police Board.’
‘I haven’t accused him of anything more than having a very strong motive,’ I said. If Fraser thought that being a councillor guaranteed honesty, he was more innocent than the officer I remembered.
Chapter Seven
Fraser was about to say more, no doubt to press me for more information although my store of fact and speculation was exhausted. To my relief the Sergeant returned, leading Mrs Guidman gently by the hand.
We stood up. I had never met Bob’s wife. She turned out to be a small woman – I tend to be as thin as a thumb-stick but I would have made at least two of her. Her face, under a crown of silvery hair, had the same innocence as Mrs Dalton’s. It was lined but the bone structure had a certain purity and it was a kindly face, the face of one whom I could imagine doing small obligements for her neighbours, if she could put herself forward enough to face them. There was no doubt that she was either very shy or very timid. She clung to the Sergeant’s hand for reassurance until he had led her to a chair and persuaded her to sit down.
‘I don’t think that I need detain you gentlemen during this,’ Fraser told Bruce and me.
‘We’ll go and get on with something more constructive,’ Bruce said.
Mrs Guidman looked terrified at the prospect of being left alone with three policemen. ‘Just tell the man what you told Bob to tell me,’ I said soothingly. It occurred to me that I might be able to divert a little of Blosson’s aggression. ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘how did you manage to see Mr Branch’s dog, with the rape standing so high?’
‘He jamp up on the troch,’ she replied.
That seemed to close the subject before it had opened. ‘Mr Fraser will look after you,’ I said.
She nodded but I still hesitated. I had no grounds for insisting that I remained present while the police interviewed a witness, but I was sure that Blosson’s hostility, which was hovering in the room like a swarm of killer bees, would reduce anyone as timid as Mrs Guidman to jelly.
Detective Superintendent Fraser either took the hint or sensed my disquiet, or perhaps he had a similar concern of his own. ‘Mr Blosson,’ he said. ‘Take the Range Rover and go back to the office. Complete your report up to date. I shall want to see it on my desk first thing on Monday morning.’
Blosson got to his feet and stood to attention. ‘Mr Fraser,’ he said, ‘I think that I have a right to be present. My competence and impartiality have been called into question.’
‘You will be kept fully informed and will have the opportunity to answer any allegations,’ Fraser said tonelessly. ‘Leave Sergeant Morrison on guard here and send somebody back with the car.’
It seemed to be a good moment to escape.
*
Bruce crossed the hall to the dining roo
m but I hurried quickly up to the half-landing where a window gave me a partial view of the back lane over the garden wall. And there, about opposite Alistair Branch’s house, was the cattle trough – a former bath, as was quite customary among thrifty Scots farmers. The farmer had even fitted it with a lid to prevent it filling with water and algae while the field was in crop and not being used as pasture. Detective Inspector Blosson would not so easily pick holes in Mrs Guidman’s account.
I joined Bruce in the dining room.
‘I think you’ve cracked it,’ Bruce said. ‘They’ll have to let Alistair go after this.’ He was still hugging his clipboard. ‘Blast!’ he snorted. ‘I’ve left all my other papers in there. Do you think I could go back?’
‘No way!’ I said. ‘Fraser’s coaxing out of Mrs Guidman the very information you’ve been looking for. He’ll be trying to create the right atmosphere of confidence and trust. She saw Alistair going home by the back way and she saw the murderer. Fraser’s doing your job for you. That particular boat is not one for rocking. For God’s sake put your feet up and relax for a minute or two.’
Bruce walked round in a small circle on the worn dining-room carpet, frowning into space. ‘If I sit still at a time like this,’ he said fretfully, ‘I’ll get anxiety symptoms. I must learn to avoid getting steamed up over a client’s affairs. The trouble is, I like Mr Branch.’ He sighed deeply. ‘The one thing that always relaxes me is to put another task behind me. Well, there’s only one other useful thing I can do without the rest of my papers. We’ll just have to get on with the inventory. You call it out to me and I’ll write it down.’
I was hardly in a position to plead another engagement. I had shot my bolt. I could have left him and gone home but my curiosity was now fully engaged. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Until they come out of there. Where do you want to begin?’
‘Do you know anything about furniture?’
I know a little about antique furniture but listing Mrs Horner’s tawdry bits and pieces was not my idea of fun. ‘I can tell a table from a chair,’ I said.
Bruce sighed again, even more deeply. ‘Then let’s start with the pictures,’ he said. ‘Just call out the dimensions, a rough description and the name of the artist if you can read it.’
He handed me a small retracting measuring tape. Fired by a little of Henry’s enthusiasm at second hand, I have learned a little about pictures but I was not impressed by the examples adorning Mrs Horner’s walls. The room had been heated by coal fires for generations. The paintings, which had to be family heirlooms, were dark with old varnish and the soot of ages. I read off the dimensions of the first painting. ‘Oil painting. Signature could be Amos or Ames. Possibly Anus. Highland Cattle sinking slowly into a bog. The frame’s a fake, papier mâché painted gold.’ I turned the frame round but there was no label on the back.
‘Next. Watercolour, very faded, slightly fly-spotted. Signature totally illegible but Russell Flint it is not. Snow scene with rocks and a stag. Thin oak frame. No label. Next. Oil. A loch, looks like Loch Linnhe, from what I can see under the yellow varnish. I can’t see a signature but there’s a label on the back. Horatio McCulloch, whoever he may have been. Good Victorian frame, wood gilt. Next. Oil again. Portrait of a Victorian paterfamilias with a distinct squint. Facial resemblance to a frog, if accurate, suggests that he may have been an ancestor of Mrs Horner. Signature J. Burdock. Frame probably worth more than the portrait. Last one. Flowers, executed in tapestry, very faded. That’s the lot in here.’
Bruce frowned at his clipboard. ‘Not very definitive, is it? Hardly enough to get a valuation on. We don’t even know enough to tell whether any of them would justify the expense of getting them cleaned. For all we can tell, one of them could be painted over a Rembrandt. I’d better get an expert in.’
‘Roland Bovis lives next door,’ I told him. ‘You know who I mean? He’s in partnership with Mrs Horner’s nephew in that antique shop in Broughty Ferry. He’s often away at the sales on a Saturday but he might be at home. At least if he makes a fee from it the money stays in the firm. Shall I phone him?’
Bruce considered. ‘I can’t see any objection,’ he said. ‘It would only be preliminary, to get the descriptions right and tell me whether anything here should be restored or sent to auction. He has a connection with the sole beneficiary, so any significant figures would have to be submitted to an independent valuer, but you don’t have to tell him that.’
There was a directory under the hall table. I dialled Bovis’s number. He answered after five or six rings and recognized my voice. ‘I’m speaking from next door,’ I said, ‘assisting the executor. Would you care to give us some help with the inventory and valuation?’
There was a pause. ‘If it doesn’t take too long,’ he said. ‘I’ll come round now.’
Bruce joined me in the hall. By the time that we had measured and listed a poor Victorian painting of a puppy and kittens by somebody signing himself or herself W. Ratling, Bovis was at the door and the telephone was ringing. I introduced Bruce to Bovis and let them get on with it.
DS Parkes had come out to answer the telephone on the assumption that it would be his call back from Records but, ‘It’s for you,’ he said, passing me the phone.
Henry was on the line. ‘I’ve shown Keith the gun,’ he said. ‘It’s still in proof and in excellent condition. He says he’ll give you eight hundred for it, or you might get more if he sells it for you on commission.’
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Bovis is here now. I’ll ask him.’
I followed Roland Bovis into the dining room and put the question to him for a decision. He said, ‘We’ll take the eight hundred. Definite profit today’s usually worth at least as much as possible profit tomorrow.’
I went back to the phone. ‘Grab the money and run,’ I told Henry.
‘That’s what I thought he’d say. If he’s near by, make sure that he can’t hear me.’
Bovis was still in the dining room with Bruce and the door was shut. ‘He can’t,’ I said.
‘According to the auctioneer, Shute and Bovis don’t get to purchase on credit any more. It’s cash up front or no deal. And I forget what you said he said he paid for it, but he only paid sixty-five. A rip-off merchant! By the way, did Bovis say that he came to the auction last week?’
I felt the hairs stir on the nape of my neck. But it is never easy to recall the exact words of an earlier conversation. ‘That’s what I understood him to mean,’ I said cautiously.
‘Well, he didn’t, again according to the auctioneer. He went there the day before and left bids on anything he fancied or where he thought the reserve was set too low.’
‘That could be interesting.’ The sudden realization that the apparently perfect alibi of a neighbour was flawed gave a stir to the nebulous thoughts brewing in my mind and one half-digested item floated to the surface. The door to the dining room was still closed. ‘Henry,’ I said, ‘you’re the picture fancier around here. The name Horatio McCulloch sounded made up but the more I think about it the more I think that I hear bells ringing.’
‘I should think that you would have heard it before.’ There was more animation in Henry’s voice than I had heard for a long time. ‘One of his paintings – Kilchurn Castle on Loch Awe – was sold by Sotheby’s in an auction at Gleneagles recently. It made more than a quarter of a million. So it was just as well that I didn’t fancy it one damn bit.’
*
Back in the dining room, Bovis was speaking to Bruce. ‘– told me that her father bought this house in the twenties. He was a younger son and although he had a few family bits and pieces he was pinched for cash and most of the furniture would have been considered cheap and nasty even at the time.’
‘And the pictures?’ I broke in. ‘What sort of figure would you put on this one?’ As if by chance, I pointed to the Horatio McCulloch.
He managed not to jump but I saw a muscle twitch in his cheek and I thought that his eyes changed focus. He knew, all right. He
had probably done Mrs Horner’s insurance valuation for her. ‘One fifty on a good day,’ he said.
I knew then what I should have seen before. It came to me with absolute certainty and I was saddened. Roland Bovis had seemed a likeable rogue, a type to which I sometimes feel drawn if only because their approach to life is the very opposite of mine. I preferred to be solid and responsible but there were times when I wished that I had the temperament, as Daffy once phrased it, to ‘throw my knickers over the windmill’. But Bovis had gone much, much too far. I glanced down at his legs. He was wearing shorts and his legs were white.
I closed the dining-room door behind me, knocked and put my head into the sitting room. Mrs Guidman was sitting composedly beside the fireplace. Sergeant Parkes at the desk had paused in his shorthand. The absence of Detective Inspector Blosson gave the gloomy room almost a festive air.
Fraser looked round. ‘A word with you,’ I said. ‘I think it’s urgent.’
Rather than put Mrs Guidman out into the hall he came out and joined me, half closing the door behind him. ‘Bovis is your man,’ I told him. ‘Definitely.’
‘Bovis?’
‘Sh! He’s here now.’ I indicated the dining-room door. ‘He’s the man who Mrs Guidman saw.’
Fraser’s eyebrows went up. He took my sleeve and drew me silently into the sitting room. ‘Could Mr Bovis have been the man you saw come out of the back gate?’ he asked Mrs Guidman.
‘Aye,’ she said quietly. ‘I thocht it was him at the time.’
‘Go on about him,’ Fraser said to me. We were still standing just inside the sitting-room door, too rapt to sit down.
‘A lorry driver from the sand-pit saw somebody of his description and wearing shorts such as he has on at the moment, standing on the other side of the road and looking down towards the Moss. I thought that it might have been the killer, newly arrived by the path down by the burn and turned away to hide his face from the lorry driver. But now I think that Bovis was on the way round to pay one of his calls on Mrs Horner and waiting for his dog to come back from doing its business among the bushes. They’d have come out of his side gate and in at her front gate and nobody need have seen them. He has a dog which hates all cats and she had a cat which hates all dogs, but against all the odds the two animals, it seems, got on well together – like must have been calling to like. He’s the one dog that Mrs Horner was prepared to tolerate. When Bovis came to see me, the day after the murder, the dog had fleas.’
Dead Weight (Three Oaks Book 11) Page 15
