‘Well, I hope you won’t let him go again,’ said another voice. ‘Even if he is in prison I’m sure I won’t sleep at night.’
Sharrock smiled. ‘I would like to reassure you all that he is no danger to the public at large,’ he said, and stepped down from the platform.
There was a finality in the tone of his voice that Frances recognised, and she approached him as he made his way back to the pavilion. ‘I gather that Mr Coote is in some way unable to constitute a danger?’
‘You have a cynical view of the world, Miss – whatever it is you are calling yourself today.’
‘But I am right?’
He paused then gave a curt nod. ‘Mr Coote has been reduced to tweed, bones and buttons, and an indigestible scrap of prison issue underlinen. He made the mistake of hiding out in a pigsty to the north of Old Oak Common Lane. Hungry creatures, pigs. They’ll eat almost anything. There was no evidence of him on the day he escaped, but the farmer has told us it appeared subsequently in the natural course of things.’
Frances was unsure if she ever wished to eat pork again. ‘Then you believe he died very soon after his escape?’
‘It looks that way, yes.’
‘I suppose Reverend Ross-Fielder should be informed. He has been a very worried man, as he feared another attack. He will probably want to pray for the man’s soul.’
‘Oh, Ross-Fielder is all charity and light on the surface but the Hammersmith Inspector said it was hard to get him to even talk about the case. But if the reverend prays at all, I expect it will be to give thanks.’
‘But he visited Coote in prison.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard Sergeant Hambling mention it. He said the reverend was Coote’s only visitor. You had been wondering if a visitor had slipped Coote the funds he needed to bribe a guard to help him escape, but of course the reverend was the very last man who would have wanted him free.’
‘That’s true enough.’
‘And there is something else,’ said Frances. ’As you know, on the day Coote escaped from prison, someone entered the coach house at Springfield Lodge and cut the spokes on Mr Ross-Fielder’s bicycle. When the members heard about Coote’s escape they thought it might have been he who did it, but now it seems that it can’t have been. I don’t think he would have come to East Acton and then returned to the vicinity of the prison.’
‘No, I doubt that he ever got as far as East Acton. We think that when all the hue and cry began he climbed into the pigsty to hide and learned more about pigs in five minutes than most men will ever know.’
‘Poor man,’ said Frances, since it seemed like a dreadful end for anybody. ‘I hope he didn’t suffer.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Sharrock, although he didn’t sound too troubled about it. ‘So, if you don’t mind, I will now continue to investigate the murder of Miss Hicks. I am content, however, to leave the mystery of the damaged bicycle to you.’ He strode away before she could question him further.
Frances was thoughtful. With Mr Coote now no longer a suspect in that particular misdemeanour she wondered afresh who could possibly have been the saboteur. No one other than the club members and Jack Linnett had been seen in the vicinity, and all of them would have known that the damage was slight, easily corrected, and could not have caused an injury to the rider. Yet everyone was agreed that the spokes had been deliberately cut and not broken. In fact, the only result of the damage had been to prevent Ross-Fielder going out on the club ride and losing an afternoon’s exercise. He might well have replaced the spokes and set out with very little delay, but had very sensibly decided to remain and check over the machine for any more dangerous and less obvious damage. Whoever had cut the spokes could not have anticipated that the rider would be held back by more than a few minutes. It was hard to understand why it had been done at all.
Frances doubted that the Inspector would have any further information, but glancing about the field, she soon spotted a man who might.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sergeant Hambling was a very busy man and also very hot and tired. He had been covering the field, directing his constables and reporting to Inspector Sharrock, and looked as if he had not had a rest or refreshment for some time.
‘Sergeant Hambling,’ said Frances, as he took a brief moment to get his breath. ‘You have been working so very hard, I do hope you have been given tea and something to eat?’
‘There hasn’t been any time for that, Miss,’ he said regretfully. ‘A policeman’s lot, as they say.’
‘Oh, but you must keep your strength up,’ she exclaimed. ‘We can’t have you fainting away, you know. Why don’t I open up the kitchen again and make you some tea? There is some cake left, and bread and butter and Mrs Pirrie’s homemade jam.’
He hesitated. ‘Well that sounds very tempting, I must say.’
‘It would take no time at all to prepare. Come to the kitchen in a few minutes and it will be ready for you.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Miss …?’
‘Williamson. I am Mr Garton’s cousin.’
‘Right you are. I just need to speak to my men and I’ll be right along.’
When Sergeant Hambling appeared in the kitchen there was a freshly made pot of tea and a feast of cake and bread waiting for him.
‘Thank you, Miss Williamson, for going to all this trouble,’ he said, as Frances poured tea into the largest cup she could find.
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Yes please, plenty of milk and three spoonsful of sugar.’
Frances stirred the tea and handed him the cup. He gulped the almost boiling beverage gratefully. ‘It’s really no trouble at all,’ she said. ‘It is the least I can do, considering all that you have done today.’ She proffered a plate of jam sandwiches and slices of cake. ‘You must be so relieved that that nasty criminal has been caught at last. As we all are! The police have been so brave and so thorough. I am astonished that you could find someone like that. It must have been like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.’
‘Well, we have our methods,’ said the sergeant, munching on a sandwich. ‘But in the end there’s no substitute for hard work. We’ve been all over – gardens, orchards, sheds, stables. Everywhere a man can hide.’
‘I do hope that the Reverend Ross-Fielder has been told the good news so that his mind can be at peace now. I saw him earlier today, and while he was bearing up well, I could see how anxious he was. And I believe that he actually visited his attacker in prison? What a kind and truly Christian act that was. Is the Reverend a frequent visitor to the prison?’
‘Ah, no, I’m not aware that he has been there before. There is a prison chaplain, of course, who ministers to the inmates.’
‘So it was a special visit, and to the very man who was so horribly violent to him. How extraordinary! But perhaps the Reverend Ross-Fielder thought that by extending a personal message of forgiveness, he might yet save the soul of his attacker and bring him to true holiness and peace.’ Frances made a great show of passionate regret. ‘Oh, how I wish he had succeeded! How ungrateful of the man to refuse the hand of salvation and commit yet another bad act!’
Hambling nodded and gratefully accepted the replenishment of his cup. ‘You can never know what some of these types will do. Some will turn to the good if they are led, others will stay as they are.’ He gulped more tea and helped himself to cake.
‘Do you know if the Reverend offered Mr Coote any more practical assistance? Perhaps something to help him find honest employment after his release?’
Hambling smiled. ‘No, just spiritual guidance. He gave him a prayer book, that’s all. I’m not sure Coote even bothered to read it. He certainly didn’t take it with him.’
‘Perhaps I should feel sorry for Mr Coote, even though he was a criminal. I was told that he had no family to help him. Is that true? No friends? No one to take pity on him? No other visitors? How sad to be so alone in the world.’
Hambli
ng dusted crumbs from his jacket. ‘Yes, he was an odd one all right.’ He took a deep breath of contentment. ‘Well, thank you very kindly Miss Williamson, I certainly feel refreshed and ready to go about my duties!’
As Frances tidied the kitchen she could only wonder if the gift of a prayer book from a clergyman would be searched to see if there was anything hidden in its pages. But why, she thought, would the prisoner’s victim help him escape? And was there any connection between that visit and the damage to Henry Ross-Fielder’s bicycle?
During the course of the afternoon all those who had attended the race meeting were interviewed by the police, and after supplying their names and addresses were permitted to go home. The five men who had ridden in the professionals’ race as well as the marshall were early departures, as were the men of the Acton Brass Ensemble, and after the contretemps between Miss Farrow and Miss Vance, Mr Goring had decided to leave.
A bicyclist had gone to Acton to hire cabs and these were arriving to convey the visitors home. The tricycles and sociables that had been drawn up on the field were being ridden away. The ropes and posts that belonged to the cricket club had been taken to the pavilion storeroom, while those that were the property of the club were waiting by the exit in readiness for when they could be replaced in the lodge coach house. With the departure of customers, the salesmen were dismantling their stalls and packing up their wares in preparation for leaving as soon as they were permitted. It was a quiet and mournful end to a day that had promised excitement and amusement.
Mr Toop, who had been interviewed early on and was therefore within his rights to leave, nevertheless insisted on remaining to oversee all the arrangements, which he did with the expression and manner of an usher at a funeral.
A miserable looking Henry Ross-Fielder, having helped with the dismantling of the track, had gone to sit on the veranda with his mother and brother. Frances assumed that Inspector Sharrock was currently questioning his father. She wondered when the family was going to be informed that Coote was dead. It was not, of course, her place to tell them. What would be their reaction when they found out? Relief? Sorrow? Had the Reverend really been the instrument of the convict’s escape, and if so, why? Had Coote somehow persuaded him that he would be a better man if freed? That seemed doubtful. She wondered if Coote’s death was really an accident. Had he been murdered and the body fed to the pigs? Had he only been freed in order to exact this horrible revenge? It was an extreme and unlikely action, but Frances reflected that there were probably many aspects of the meeting between the reverend gentleman and the prisoner that she knew nothing about.
Ratty called by, looking pleased with himself. ‘’Spector says I ’ave ter be an extry pair ’uv eyes for ’im. Y’know,’ he added carefully, ‘’e ain’t a bad old cove fer a copper.’
‘That’s true. I think you would make a fine policeman, and I expect he thinks so, too.’
Ratty shrugged. ‘D’no about that.’
‘Well since you have such sharp eyes, can you tell me if Mr Peters, the young man who has been riding about on a velocipede, is anywhere about? Has he been questioned yet?’
‘Don’ think so. An’ I ain’t seen ’im anywhere for quite a bit. Not since before the race where there was all that cuffuffle.’
‘Really? As long ago as that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Perhaps he has been interviewed and allowed home.’
‘Nah, ’e ain’t’. Cos ’is boss man, Mr ’opper, ’e’s bin lookin’ about for ’im. ’E wanted ter go off outside an’ look but the p’lice stopped ’im.’
‘What about Mr Grove, have you seen him anywhere?’
‘Yeah, well ’e was gone for a bit an’ all, but then ’e come back. ’E’s bin up ter summat funny though. Dunno what. ’E’s over at the smithy’s place ’elpin’ out young Mr Linnett ’o’s a bit upset.’
Frances glanced over at the blacksmith’s enclosure and saw that this was correct. Jack Linnett had his head down working on a bicycle, with Cedric and Mr Grove offering a helping hand.
‘Ratty, I want you to keep a special watch on Henry Ross-Fielder and his family. I think the father is being questioned at the moment, but I would like to know what they say when he rejoins them. I think they have some sort of secret that they might only discuss between themselves. See if you can find it out.’
‘Right y’are!’ grinned Ratty and darted away.
Frances was all too aware that she was overstepping her instructions, and had been doing so for quite some time, but she suspected that everything had changed after the murder of Miss Hicks, and when the old rules no longer applied one had to make up new ones. In any case, she told herself, there was no harm in asking others to be vigilant and collect information. She had still not come to any conclusion about the identity of the traitor. Wherever there was the prospect of misuse of money that was where she was obliged to look.
The Reverend Ross-Fielder emerged from the pavilion, blinking into the declining sun. His family went at once to comfort him, urging him to sit down at a table. The gentleman had been a well set up man for his age but now he appeared shrunken and older. There was some agitated conversation before the father hid his face in his hands. Nearby, unnoticed, Tom and Ratty appeared to be playing a game of tag.
A constable approached the family group, his official manner not untinged by sympathy, and asked Henry Ross-Fielder to come inside to be questioned. He sighed, and pressed his father’s hand before going in. The rest of the family drew close and there was more urgent conversation, which hushed whenever a policeman or other person drew near, but the playing boys went unregarded.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Frances sat down on a bench. Sarah and Pounder were walking about arm-in-arm, and, she felt sure, watching and listening as they went. In her opinion they made a fine couple. People had remarked upon them, usually with surprise, and often disparagingly, since Pounder was tall and well proportioned, with fine, manly features, while Sarah’s many wonderful attributes did not include beauty. That was a shallow way of reckoning, thought Frances, since once one saw them together there was a comfortable unity about them, as sturdy and enduring as a rock.
Cedric walked over and sat on the bench beside her.
‘How is Jack?’ she asked.
‘Taking it badly, as one might expect, trying to distract himself with work, but it’s hard going when he keeps weeping.’
‘There will be those who might accuse him of the murder, they will see it as a crime of jealousy, and think the son is like the father.’
‘Then the sooner we call in Miss Frances Doughty to solve the case the better.’
‘I agree, but I am not sure there is anything I can do today. Did Mr Grove say where he went during the professionals’ race?’
‘No, I didn’t realise he had been missing then. You don’t think he killed Miss Hicks?’
‘I don’t know; I doubt it, but he may have seen something important since everyone else, including myself I am ashamed to say, was watching the race.’ Frances rose and, accompanied by Cedric, walked over to the blacksmith’s enclosure, where Jack was showing Mr Grove how to replace a broken spoke.
Grove glanced up at her, and since they were not supposed to know each other, said nothing. Jack’s face was grimy with dust and sweat and there were dark puddles under his eyes. He stood up and rubbed the back of his hand across his face, which did nothing to improve the even distribution of dirt and tears. Cedric patted him on the arm. ‘Come,’ he said gently. ‘You have worked all day without a rest. Sit down, now.’
Jack sniffed and allowed himself to be led to a nearby bench, where he sat dejectedly.
Frances pretended to make a close examination of one of the bicycles, while Grove wiped his hands on a handkerchief. Neither spoke to the other until Cedric returned.
‘Allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Williamson,’ said Cedric. ‘Rose, this is Mr Grove, who has been assisting poor Jack Linnett just now.’
Grov
e gave a polite salute. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance. Have you been interviewed by the Inspector yet?’
‘Not yet, no, though I have spoken to both him and Sergeant Hambling this afternoon.’
‘Well, while we wait, shall we find some shade near the pavilion?’
‘Yes, why not?’ He proffered his arm and she took it, and together they turned to walk back to the pavilion. ‘Will you join us, Cedric?’
Cedric gazed at them and there was an expression on his face which Frances was quite unable to decipher. ‘I — er — if you don’t mind, I will sit with Jack.’
They walked on. Frances found herself unwilling to place any more than the lightest touch on her companion’s sleeve, as if reluctant to sense the strength that lay beneath it. Once again she felt the situation was part of a dream from which she would soon awaken. Either that or they were players in one of Mr Gilbert and Mr Sullivan’s operas and they were about to step onto the stage and burst into a comic song. She could not help noticing that since she had last seen him Mr Grove’s knuckles had become bruised. ‘Dangerous work, repairing bicycles,’ she commented.
‘Oh, this – no, that was done contacting something a lot harder.’
‘What have you been doing?’ she asked. ‘You were not here during the last race.’
‘I was attending to necessary business.’
‘Oh?’
‘By the name of Peters.’
She gave him a quizzical look and he smiled. It was a pleasant smile, quite unlike the sneer of the Filleter. ‘Don’t worry, he isn’t dead, he is much more useful to us alive. I have him secure where he will be turned over to the police in due course.’
‘Mr Hopper was worried by Peters’ absence, I saw him looking about for him.’
‘He will look in vain.’ There were no places on the veranda, which was occupied by those waiting to be interviewed, but some tables and chairs had been placed on the grass in front of the pavilion to take advantage of the late afternoon shade spreading across the ground. They sat down. ‘You see, one or two things started to come back to me about the unfortunate lapse from which you rescued me. First of all, a vague memory that when I entered Sir Hugo’s workshop there was more than one man in there. And I also recalled that there was a velocipede leaning against the side of the building. I feel certain that one of the men inside was Peters, and quite possibly another was Hopper or one of his men. But there was at least one more, a man who was very careful to keep in the shadows. I anticipated that when I appeared on the field again someone would give himself away and sure enough, when Peters saw me free, he started to stalk me. I allowed him to think that I didn’t see what he was up to, and so was able to draw him away. Peters must have thought I would be an easy target. But this time I was ready for him.’
Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club Page 22
