Element of Doubt

by Dorothy Simpson

  Marilyn was looking horrified. ‘You’re not suggesting she might actually have seen …’ Her eyes swivelled to her employer, who was now frowning down at her lap. The blunt, varnished nails had scrabbled a hole in the gauzy material, Thanet noticed, and even as he watched, the old lady seized the torn edges on either side and with a twisting, rending movement ripped the skirt apart from waist to hem.

  ‘Lavinia!’ exclaimed Marilyn, springing up and imprisoning her employer’s hands in her own. ‘Why did you do that? Look what a mess you’ve made of your pretty skirt …’

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ said the old lady querulously. ‘I haven’t had my Horlicks. Where’s my Horlicks …?’

  Marilyn stood up. ‘Well, there’s no need to show off like that, to get my attention,’ she said, with understandable irritation. ‘All you had to do was ask, and I would have got it for you.’ Already she was pouring milk into a saucepan, spooning Horlicks from a jar.

  But the old lady wasn’t listening. Watching her, Thanet could see the beginnings of a tremor in her body, scarcely perceptible to begin with, like the first breath of wind stirring the topmost leaves of the trees in a forest, then gradually becoming more and more apparent. Marilyn, busy with the hot drink, had not yet noticed.

  ‘Miss Barnes,’ said Thanet softly, calling her attention to her charge.

  Shoving the saucepan hastily aside, off the heat, Marilyn swooped forward and seized the old lady’s hands, in a very different manner from a few minutes previously. ‘Lavinia!’ she cried. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ And leaning forward she gathered the frail, shaking body into her arms. ‘Don’t worry,’ she murmured. ‘Marilyn isn’t cross with you. Really. Hush, now. Marilyn’s got you …’

  Thanet was more certain than ever that the old lady had seen something, heard something, done something that had terrified her. Which? he wondered. And what?

  Her next words confirmed this.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ she quavered. ‘Death …’

  Marilyn looked helplessly up at Thanet, then turned back to her employer and began to murmur soothingly again, rocking her gently and patting her back.

  Thanet stood up. ‘She’s obviously not up to being questioned now. Tomorrow, perhaps?’

  Marilyn nodded. ‘She might be calmer then, after a good night’s sleep. Though there’s no guarantee she’ll remember anything, of course.’

  ‘Just one more question … We noticed that no attempt had been made to tidy Mrs Tarrant’s bedroom …’

  Marilyn’s eyes were hard as she looked up again. ‘That was because she wanted her husband to see the grounds for her complaint. She told me she wasn’t going to clear away a thing until he’d seen exactly what his mother had been up to.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’

  They left.

  FIVE

  ‘Nice woman,’ said Lineham, when they were out of earshot.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there are many in her position who’d take so much trouble over a batty old lady like that. And she wasn’t just putting it on for our benefit, was she?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘What’s the matter, sir?’

  ‘I’m just hoping you’re wrong, in your suggestion that old Mrs Tarrant may have pushed her daughter-in-law off that balcony. Frankly, the idea appals me.’

  ‘She’d get off,’ said Lineham cheerfully.

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘What is, then, sir?’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘Never mind.’ If Lineham couldn’t see it for himself, there was no point in explaining it to him. The sergeant’s occasional lack of sensitivity was something Thanet had had to learn to live with.

  ‘Anyway, even if she did do it, sir, there’s no guarantee we’d be able to prove it, unless forensic come up with something useful.’

  ‘Well, it’s early days yet,’ said Thanet vaguely. ‘Let’s go and have a word with PC Driver, shall we? Where is he?’

  ‘Down by the gate, holding back the ghouls.’

  ‘Right. Of course,’ Thanet added, as they headed for the front door, ‘there’s always the possibility that Miss Barnes did it.’

  Lineham stride faltered. ‘Why?’ Clearly, the suggestion didn’t appeal to him.

  ‘Well, she’d just been threatened with being thrown out on her ear, hadn’t she? And for a woman in her position that’s a pretty alarming prospect.’

  ‘I imagine she’s very capable,’ said Lineham. ‘And people are supposed to be crying out for good domestic staff, housekeepers and such-like, these days. I shouldn’t have thought she’d have too many problems in finding another job.’

  ‘With a ten-year-old boy in tow? Not as easy as you’re making out, I suspect, Mike. Let’s face it, like old Mrs Tarrant, she had both motive and opportunity.’

  ‘For all we know, they could have been in it together,’ said Lineham sarcastically.

  ‘Who knows? They say truth is often stranger than fiction.’ But Thanet didn’t mean it. He could accept that both women had a powerful reason to be afraid of Nerine Tarrant – who sounded more and more unpleasant the more he learnt about her – and that either of them could, in the last resort, have lost her temper and given Nerine that fatal shove, but he simply could not see them sitting down and carefully planning the murder as conspirators.

  Lineham gave a derisive snort. ‘There are limits.’

  Thanet enjoyed teasing his sergeant occasionally. ‘To what, Mike? Our credulity? Their decency? Our gullibility? Their potential evil? I doubt it. On the contrary, I think that such limits are capable of infinite expansion and contraction. That’s what makes people so fascinating. You never know where they’re going to draw their particular line. I suppose,’ said Thanet, becoming interested in pursuing the idea, ‘it’s what life is all about. Learning where to draw the lines.’

  Lineham was not interested in philosophising. He made a polite sound of assent but mentally he had switched off, Thanet could tell.

  ‘Then, there’s the son, sir. Damon.’ Lineham injected the name with the scorn of the conventional for the off-beat. ‘Didn’t someone say he’s on probation?’

  ‘That’s right. As a matter of fact, he’s one of Joan’s clients.’

  ‘Really? That could be useful.’

  Thanet wasn’t so sure. He could foresee difficulties ahead. He had always dreaded finding himself in the situation where a suspect in one of his cases was also Joan’s client. Thinking about it now he experienced a premonitory tremor of unease. Already he was in a slight dilemma: should he tell the sergeant about that missed appointment this afternoon?

  There was no reason why not, so far as he could tell. Joan could hardly regard it as a confidence broken. In the circumstances it would be routine to interview Damon’s probation officer and this information would have come out as a matter of course.

  ‘As a matter of fact, she’s already told me something interesting. Damon had an appointment with her this afternoon, and he didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Really? What time was he supposed to have seen her?’

  ‘I don’t know the details. She was rushing off to a meeting, there was no time to talk.’

  ‘Was he in the habit of breaking appointments?’

  ‘No idea. But I imagine not, or she wouldn’t have been so concerned. In any case, the timing of his departure was interesting, didn’t you think?’

  ‘You mean, that was what his father was hiding? The fact that he met Damon driving out as he was driving in? So as to avoid implicating him?’

  ‘It’s quite likely, don’t you think?’

  ‘Possible, certainly. But I wonder why. So far there hasn’t been any suggestion that Damon and his mother didn’t get on, let alone that he hated her enough to kill her …’

  ‘Perhaps it’s just a natural paternal reaction – try to keep your offspring out of trouble if you can – and especially if they’ve already had a brush with the law. Anyway, it sounds as though
Damon might well have been here over the crucial period.’

  ‘Yes. It’ll be interesting to hear what he has to say … Ah, there’s Driver, sir.’

  It was now just after nine thirty and the light was seeping out of the sky. Sharp-edged silhouettes of trees were etched against the pearly brightness which still lingered above the western horizon, and the crunch of their footsteps on the gravel sounded unnaturally loud in that strangely cathedral hush which falls over the land as day fades into night.

  Most of the crowd had dispersed by now, resigned to the fact that there was to be no more drama tonight, and only five or six die-hards were still lingering on the far side of the tall gates. PC Driver was chatting to them through the wrought-iron scrolls and curlicues, his stance relaxed, a man at ease among old acquaintances. He was in his mid-twenties, tall and thin, with a hooked nose and a frizz of tight, fair curls. As Thanet and Lineham approached he turned, unconsciously stiffening to attention. Lineham made the introductions and the three men strolled a little way up the drive, out of range of all the eager ears flapping on the other side of the gates.

  ‘We’re hoping your local knowledge is going to be of some use to us,’ said Thanet. ‘How long have you been living in Ribbleden.’

  Driver pulled a face. ‘A couple of years, sir. That’s only five minutes – less – by rural standards.’

  ‘But you’ve got a good idea of what goes on here, by now.’

  ‘I make it my business to keep my ear to the ground, sir. And my mouth shut.’

  ‘Good. So tell us what you know about the people who live in High Gables. And especially about young Mrs Tarrant.’

  Driver shuffled his feet. ‘She had a bit of a reputation, I’m afraid, sir.’ He looked uncomfortable, as if he felt it slightly improper to gossip about his social superiors. Thanet knew that in the country such distinctions were still more clearly delineated than in the town.

  ‘She played around, you mean.’

  ‘She certainly did.’ Driver rolled his eyes, warming to his subject. ‘It’s common knowledge that she’d have a new man every few months or so. You’d have thought she’d have run out by now, in a place this size.’

  ‘And the current candidate?’

  ‘Lance Speed, sir. Owner of the local garage.’

  ‘What can you tell us about him?’

  ‘He’s married, with one son, Tim, aged eighteen, who’s a friend of Damon Tarrant. Mrs Speed is very popular, does a lot in the village organisations.’

  ‘She’s aware of this liaison?’

  ‘Opinion is divided, sir. But the majority view is that no, she doesn’t know about it. Sometimes the wife is the last person to know, especially if she’s well liked, and I’d guess that in this case there was a sort of conspiracy of silence, to prevent her getting hurt. Mr Speed has a reputation as a bit of a lad with the ladies, but to my knowledge until now it hasn’t gone beyond a bit of harmless flirtation at the petrol pumps.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  ‘In a bungalow at the entrance to the village. I expect you passed it on your way in. Shangri-la.’

  ‘What about the rest of the people in High Gables?’

  ‘The son’s a bit wild, Damon. Got put on probation a couple of months ago, possession of drugs. Mr Tarrant is pretty well liked, I’ve never heard anything against him – except that most people think he’s a bit of a fool to put up with his wife’s behaviour.’

  ‘There was no talk that they were on bad terms?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, sir. Beats me how he stood it. She never made any attempt to be discreet.’ Driver shrugged. ‘He was potty about her, if you ask me.’

  ‘What about the old lady?’

  ‘Eccentric but harmless. She did a lot for the village, in her time – ran the Darby and Joan club, chairman of the WI, that sort of thing, and there’s a lot of goodwill towards her. The general feeling is that it’s sad, the way she’s gone downhill.’

  ‘And her companion? How long has she been looking after her?’

  ‘Since just after I came. There was a drawing aside of skirts to begin with, on account of her being an unmarried mum, but she keeps herself to herself and people have accepted her by now. Seems a nice enough woman.’

  ‘What about Miss Linacre and Mrs Haywood?’

  ‘Miss Linacre is out at work all day, so we don’t see much of her, but Mrs Haywood helps out at church events – jumble sales, cake stalls, that sort of thing. She’s regarded as harmless but a bit odd, partly because of the way she dresses and partly because of the way she goes on and on about that son of hers, the one who died, years ago. I don’t think she has any close personal friends in the village.’

  ‘Right, well what I’d like you to do is see if you can find out anything more about the Speeds. DS Lineham and I are going to go along and have a word with them now, and I’d be interested to know what you can pick up. People in the village know you, they’re more likely to talk freely. Also, I’d like you to compile a list of Mrs Tarrant’s previous boyfriends, with addresses if possible. Mark those with whom she is thought to have parted on bad terms, and those who were said to be jealous. Let me have a report, tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘The pub’ll be the best place for you, tonight. Mike, nip up to the house and arrange for someone to relieve PC Driver at the gate in, say, half an hour.’

  Lineham was back in a few minutes. ‘I assume you didn’t want me to bring the car, sir?’

  ‘No, we’ll walk. Take a look around. Perhaps drop in at the pub ourselves, on the way. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

  ‘I could do with a bite. Haven’t had anything since a sandwich, at lunchtime.’

  The hangers-on at the gate fell silent as the three policemen approached. Driver opened the gates, slipped through with Thanet and Lineham, then resumed his I’m-your-approach-able-local-bobby attitude, leaning back against the gates with his arms folded. The people held back until Thanet and Lineham had gone a little way down the road, then turned back to cluster around Driver, eager for titbits.

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘What’s the latest?’

  ‘Come on, Billy-boy, give!’

  Thanet and Lineham exchanged grins.

  ‘He’s got his head screwed on the right way,’ said Lineham.

  ‘Yes. Though in fact he didn’t tell us much we hadn’t learned already.’

  ‘No. But it was interesting to have it confirmed by an outsider.’

  ‘True.’ Thanet’s tone was abstracted. He had come to a halt and was looking around, trying to absorb his surroundings. High Gables was on the edge of the village in what Thanet now realised was an interesting and unusual position: private yet not isolated, and not directly overlooked by any other house, it stood on what could be described as a peninsula of garden, between two sharp bends in the road. If this had been a main road no doubt it would long ago have been re-routed to cut across behind the house, but such alterations to minor roads in the country are always being shelved in favour of other, more urgent repairs or innovations.

  Glancing back, by craning his neck Thanet could just see another chimneystack, poking up above and beyond the trees in Tarrant’s front garden. And on this side, once he and Lineham had carefully negotiated the bend (there were no pavements), the narrow country lane widened out and the village began. The domestic architecture was typical of villages all over Kent, a picturesque juxaposition of Tudor black and white, mellow brick and tile, crisp white-painted weatherboard. Thanet studied the houses with an appreciative eye as he walked by. He himself would have loved to live in one, with its crooked walls, uneven floors and, above all, individuality. Alas, such aspirations were not matched by a policeman’s pay. The price of houses like these had rocketed over the last twenty years and the dwindling supply ensured that such properties were certain to climb even higher in value, as time went on.

  ‘Pretty little
place,’ said Lineham.

  ‘Mmm.’

  Here, the road divided, the right fork going straight on, the left sweeping round in front of the church to encircle the village green. Thanet’s men were hard at work on their house-to-house enquiries.

  ‘That looks promising,’ said the sergeant, nodding at a colourful inn sign depicting a labrador with a somewhat garish cock pheasant in its mouth. Inside the pub the excited roar of conversation stopped abruptly as the two men entered, only gradually resuming and at a much lower, more subdued level.

  ‘Oh, to be a fly on the wall,’ murmured Lineham in Thanet’s ear as they carried their sandwiches and beer across to a small corner table which had miraculously become vacant.

  It was obvious that they weren’t going to learn anything useful by attempting to eavesdrop and it was impossible to discuss the case; they ate their sandwiches, drained their glasses and departed. By the time the door swung to behind them, the noise level had already increased perceptibly.

  ‘Let’s hope Driver does better than us,’ said Lineham.

  They walked on, passing in turn the post-office-cum-shop, the village school (still functioning, Thanet noticed; the tide of closures had been stemmed in recent years, owing to the soaring cost of transport), the village hall and a seedy-looking garage, somewhat pretentiously called Ribbleden Motors. Three second-hand cars, none of them less than three years old, were drawn up on the forecourt, price stickers on windscreens. There was a solitary petrol pump.

  ‘I thought they went out with the Ark,’ said Lineham, nodding at the overhead swing bar and trailing rubber hose. ‘If this is Speed’s place, it doesn’t exactly seem to be thriving.’

  ‘Not enough custom, out here. Too far off the beaten track.’

  Another few minutes brought them to the far end of the village and Shangri-la, which had been squeezed into a narrow slot between the last of the older houses and the inevitable council estate. Thanet noted that this was undergoing the by now familiar transformation process. The original Airey houses, ugly dwellings hastily erected after the war and apparently constructed of horizontal pre-cast concrete strips, had recently been discovered to have some design fault which rendered them unsafe, and all over the country were in the process of being pulled down and replaced. The new houses, he noted with approval, were much more attractive and in keeping with their setting.