by Roger Keevil
“Maybe. But people say all sorts of things to you when you're serving behind a bar. You get used to it. It doesn't usually mean anything.”
“So you had no particular reason to dislike Mr. Hope?”
“No. None at all. Honestly.”
“What about other people? His companions this morning – Mr. Lowe and Mr. Booker?”
“I don't really know Mark Lowe,” shrugged Anna offhandedly. “He doesn't come in here.”
“And Mr. Booker?”
“Sam?” A glow came into Anna's eyes. “Sam's nice. I like him. Of course, we've got a lot in common, with our jobs and so on. And he used to be on the same course as I'm doing. But I don't think he's got a lot of time for me.” She sighed. “I don't suppose that helps you, does it?”
“Then I think we'll leave it at that for the time being.” Constable rose to his feet, the others following suit. “Thank you,” he called in the direction of the bar, where Adelaide was clearing away glasses and rearranging bottles. As he headed towards the door of the now deserted room, his eye was caught by a large glass case mounted on one wall, its sliding doors sheltering an impressive array of weaponry, ranging from basket-handled swords which looked as if they had seen service in the English Civil War, Italian stilettos with intricately-chased handles, Napoleonic vintage bayonets, a native American tomahawk, a Ghurkha kukri, and a cavalryman's dress sabre. Other less notable weapons completed the display.
“That's a fearsome collection of ironmongery you have there, Miss Knight,” he remarked.
“Oh, those,” replied Adelaide casually, joining the detectives in their inspection of the cabinet. “Just a little hobby of mine, since I took over the pub. I suppose it's a leftover from when I was in the force – I had training in all sorts of combat, armed and unarmed, and it's quite surprising what you have to learn to defend yourself against if some loony decides to come charging towards you. And it's quite appropriate, considering the name of the place, don't you think?”
“Hmmm. Maybe.” Constable did not sound altogether convinced. “As long as everything is safely secured in there. I must say, those door locks don't look particularly sturdy.”
“Oh, they're mostly fine,” said Addy. “We've had one or two bits and pieces pinched occasionally, but nothing valuable. Rusty old junk, usually. Probably just the local lads doing it for a dare when I'm looking the other way. All the good stuff is wired in.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” replied Constable. “We shan't keep you any longer. Thank you both for your time, ladies.” He headed out from the dim interior on to the forecourt, blinking slightly in the late afternoon sunshine.
*
A thought struck Andy Constable. “Copper.”
“Guv?”
“Do you by any chance still have about your person that little book of Rex Hope's?”
“I do, sir,” said Dave Copper, producing it from a pocket.
“Just for fun, take a little look through it and see if the name Barbara Dwyer features.”
“Righty-ho, sir.” The sound of flicking pages. “And here it is.”
“Gracious me,” said Constable in mock astonishment. “Yet another coincidence. Well, as fortune seems to be smiling on us, shall we push our luck a little further and see if the lady is at home to callers? As she seems to live just round the corner.”
“Why not, sir?” grinned Copper, as the two set out. “Since she seems to be part of the Rex Hope harem. Because that's what it's starting to look like, isn't it?”
“He certainly does seem to have had a partiality for the ladies. Which of itself is not a crime, but you and I have seen enough cases to know that it can lead to all sorts of trouble.”
“Especially if you're involved with someone like Adelaide Knight, sir. After all, she told us herself, she's a woman who knows how to handle a knife.”
“The fact had not escaped me, sergeant. Well, let's see what our third lady runner has to add to our sum total of knowledge.” He rapped on the door of 8 Church Lane.
The woman who answered the door was slim, slightly taller than average, and looked to be around forty. Her clear complexion, devoid of make-up, her fair hair pulled back off her face, and the light summer dress she wore, all combined to give an impression of glowing well-being.
“Mrs. Dwyer?”
“That's me.”
Constable introduced himself and his junior colleague. “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?”
“This will be about Rex Hope, I suppose. Oh, don't look surprised, inspector – word gets around very fast in a village like this. You'd better come in.” Barbara led the way into the kitchen. “I hope you don't mind if I carry on,” she said, indicating two tall stools for the detectives to perch on. “I was in the middle of getting my supper sorted out.” She took up a knife and resumed the task of chopping vegetables which had obviously been interrupted by her visitors.
“You live alone?” enquired the inspector.
“Thankfully, yes,” was the slightly unexpected reply.
“Is there a Mr. Dwyer?” probed Constable.
“There is, inspector, but not here. In fact, he lives a very long way away indeed, in Dubai.”
“That is a long way.”
“It is. Probably just about far enough.” She turned back to Constable. “Sorry, inspector, I don't sound very helpful. But just for the record, my husband and I divorced a few years ago, our son lives with him, and I live here. Not, I imagine, that any of this has anything to do with why you're here.”
“That may not be strictly true,” said Constable tentatively.
“Oh?”
“Obviously, Mrs. Dwyer, we're trying to find out as much as we can about Mr. Hope with the aim of identifying contacts, any motives anyone might have to wish him ill, that sort of thing, which means we're looking into all his affairs.”
Barbara snorted. “Well, you can certainly count me out there. I've had enough of charming forty-something men to last me a lifetime!”
“Not actually the sort of affairs I meant, Mrs. Dwyer,” smiled Constable, “but thank you anyway for clarifying the point. We had already been given the impression that Mr. Hope saw himself as quite a ladies' man.”
“And I was definitely not one of those ladies. And before you even think it, Rex was not a factor in my divorce.”
“Interesting to hear, Mrs. Dwyer. But I'm now slightly puzzled. Because, you see, we have found what you might describe … what he might have described … as Mr. Hope's little black book. Names, addresses and so on of a number of people. Generally ladies. Your name was among them. Which is what has brought us to your door.” Constable waited, an enquiring look on his face.
“I can only repeat, inspector, that I had no sort of romantic involvement with Rex Hope. If that's the sort of motive you're looking for here, you won't find it.” Barbara's words had a tone of finality.
“Well, it's always useful to be able to rule out certain possibilities,” said the inspector, getting to his feet. “Oh, by the way, your name also came up in another context.”
“I seem to be very popular,” replied Barbara drily. “And what was this?”
“Oh, merely in connection with next week's village run. The Sword and Dagger was the last place Mr. Hope was seen alive, so we had a talk with the landlady there, and we gathered that you're part of the pub's team.”
“That's right, inspector.” Barbara unbent a little. “In fact, I have been called their secret weapon. I'm not sure whether that's a compliment or not.”
“How do you mean?”
“Some people have said that as a professional, I ought not to be eligible.”
“Sorry … professional what?”
“I'm a fitness instructor, inspector. I work at the Blaston Grange Spa and Hydro.”
“I know it. Big country house on the Camford Road.”
“That's right. I'm senior instructor there. I organise the exercise classes, work out the fitness regimes for our clients, conduct one-
on-one training programmes, that sort of thing.”
“And just for the avoidance of doubt, Mr. Hope didn't feature in any of these one-on-ones?”
Barbara's features froze. “He did not.”
“Ah well, another potential trail we needn't follow,” smiled Constable. “We'll just have to keep wondering why Mr. Hope had made a note of your details.”
“How unfortunate that you'll never be able to ask him.”
“True. And now I think we'll leave you to carry on with your supper while we pursue our enquiries elsewhere. Don't bother to see us out – I'm sure we can find our own way.” He beckoned Copper to follow him in the direction of the front door.
Out in the lane, Dave Copper blew out his cheeks in a mock sigh of relief. “That's one tough lady, guv,” he remarked, as the two made their way towards their cars. “Definitely a touch of steel under the exterior. She wasn't giving anything away, was she?”
“Which leads me to suppose that there's something to give.”
“I reckon you're right, guv. There's some sort of entanglement there. We just need to find out what it was.”
Constable looked at his watch. “I think tomorrow will do, sergeant. Get the incident room running, and then we can do some more digging. In the meantime, I shall go home and slump in front of the TV all evening to recharge my brain cells.”
*
The former playground of Blaston Dammett village school, now the car park of the library, was already occupied by three cars as Andy Constable drove in just after nine on Monday morning. Standing in the doorway of the old classroom, he nodded with quiet approval as he watched Dave Copper supervising the set-up of the room, as other officers quietly tapped at computer keyboards on trestle tables in the background.
“Morning, guv,” Copper greeted his superior, breaking off from his task.
“Good morning, sergeant,” rejoined the inspector. “You seem to have everything under control.”
“Didn't want to let the grass grow under our feet, guv,” replied Copper. “And there looks to be quite a lot of ground to cover, what with this not being a nice tidy locked room mystery like all the best detective stories, plus there's quite a few people in the case, so I'm getting as much background codified as I can.” He nodded to his silently working colleagues.
“Good work. And with a bit of luck, we should have some more to go on before today is much older.”
“Inspector! I hope everything is satisfactory.” The voice of Phyllis Stein, coming unexpectedly from immediately behind him, startled Constable. He whirled round.
“Ah. Miss Stein. I didn't hear you. Yes, everything seems to be fine. I didn't expect to see you quite so soon. I was under the impression that the library didn't open until later.”
“It doesn't, inspector. Eleven o'clock, actually. But I thought I'd come in a little earlier today, just to make sure that everything was all right.”
“Perfectly, thank you. At the moment we're just in the process of getting together what we know so far.”
“I see. So no doubt you'll be wanting to find out as much as you can about the people who might be involved.” There was a clear meaning in the look which Phyllis gave the inspector.
Constable was quick to take the cue. “I would imagine, Miss Stein, that someone in a position such as yours would be an invaluable source of background information regarding the people in the village.”
“Not, of course, by way of vulgar gossip, you understand,” said Phyllis hastily. “One naturally eschews that kind of thing. But if it's a question of duty, and helping the police in the investigation of a crime ...”
“Then naturally, a good citizen would wish to do everything possible to assist,” soothed Constable. “So anything you can tell us ...”
“I've just popped the kettle on. Why don't you go through to my library, and I'll bring you some tea in just a minute. Milk? Sugar?”
“God bless the village busybody, guv,” said Copper in lowered tones as the two detectives seated themselves in a pair of tub chairs in the library reading corner. “If she's got the dirt on a few people, this'll save a helluva lot of time, plus a few miles-worth of shoe-leather. Notebook at the ready, I take it?”
“Of course,” replied Constable. “But you'd better keep it fairly discreet. Let's preserve the fiction that this is just a helpful social conversation instead of somebody evidently dying to spill the beans on everyone.”
“Here we are, gentlemen.” Phyllis arrived carrying a tray which bore two steaming mugs for the officers, and a dainty bone china cup and saucer for herself. She settled herself comfortably. “Now, how can I help you?”
Constable marshalled his thoughts. “I wonder if you happened to be about yesterday morning … did you by any chance see Mr. Hope?”
“Actually, inspector, I did. I was on my way to church, and I noticed him outside the Sword and Dagger. Only briefly in passing, I should say. I wanted to make sure I wasn't late for the service. But I shouldn't have worried, because the vicar was still outside greeting people when I arrived. But yes, Rex was there with Penny Farmer and the rest of her usual entourage.” Phyllis sniffed dismissively.
“You're not a great fan of Mrs. Farmer?” enquired Constable delicately.
“Oh, I dare say she's a pleasant enough young woman when you get to know her,” said Phyllis. “But of course, far too young for that husband of hers.”
“Yes, I did notice there was something of an age difference. Why, do you believe it to be relevant?”
“I honestly couldn't say,” said Phyllis, lips pursed. “But there is something of a story there. I suppose you know who she used to be?”
“No.”
“I'm surprised, inspector. I should have thought most men would be. Of course, she was still Penny Worth then. But perhaps you don't watch that kind of programme.”
“I'm not with you, Miss Stein.”
“She was the winner of 'Catwalk Star', inspector. On Channel 6. It was a few years ago. It was one of those so-called reality programmes where they were looking for a new top model. And she won it. She was quite famous for a while, but these made-up phenomena never last, do they? Just a nine-days wonder.”
“I thought I recognised her, guv,” interrupted Copper. “But I couldn't think from where.”
“So, it was 'local-girl-made-good', was it?” enquired Constable.
“Oh no, inspector, far from it. She isn't from round here at all. No, the story was, at the height of the celebrity kerfuffle, she was involved in an event in aid of 'Support For Soldiers' – you know, the charity that looks after members of the forces if they've been wounded. Anyway, she was making an appearance, and Bob Farmer was there on account of his injury. Military police, he had been, before the accident. Obviously they must have hit it off, and before anyone could turn round, he'd brought her back here as his new bride. So she now queens it over the bar at the Three Blind Mice, and all the men in the village are running around after her, obviously just as smitten as poor Bob was.”
“I see.” Constable was intrigued. “And Mr. Hope was one of the runners? But not the only one.”
“Certainly not. That poor boy who works at the inn with her is obviously head-over-heels, and then, of course, there's that other one.” Another sniff. “Mr. Mark Lowe.”
“Mr. Lowe? You don't sound as if you approve of him.”
“I've nothing against him at all, inspector,” responded Phyllis, a hint of hauteur in her tone. “No doubt he's a very good teacher. Standards have all changed, of course, since I was in the profession. We had no time for personal relationships then.”
“By which you mean …?”
“Oh, I'm sure there was never anything in the rumours about him,” said Phyllis stoutly. “Certainly nobody I ever spoke to believed them for a minute. But there was talk – it was never more than that – that Mark Lowe had become a little too interested in one of the girls in the senior year of the school. It was never taken any further, but it just goes to sho
w that some men aren't as careful as they should be in their friendships. Sometimes they can't see the obvious.”
“Which brings us back to the question of Mrs. Farmer and her … admirers. How do you suppose Mr. Farmer felt about all this?”
“I have no idea,” said Phyllis. “I know how I'd feel if I were in his shoes. But you must ask him yourself.”
“I expect we shall, Miss Stein.” Constable sipped his tea reflectively. “For the moment, I'd rather come back to the other pub which features in this matter, and that's the Sword And Dagger. Now, you say you came past there ...”
“That's right. The village's other little private kingdom.”
The inspector was surprised by the waspish tone. “You're not fond of Miss Knight and her establishment?”
“I never go there, inspector. Not my kind of clientele at all. But of course some of the locals all flock there for what she offers.”
“Yes, she mentioned her house ales when we spoke to her. I gather she was out attending to them when the runners and you came past.”
“Yes, busy behind the scenes, I dare say. Always brewing something special, as you might say, inspector.” The look which accompanied the words hinted at a deeper meaning. “But I never pry into what goes on behind locked doors.”
“Miss Stein, let me see if I understand you correctly. Are you telling us that Miss Knight holds some sort of lock-ins at her pub after hours?”
“That's not for me to say, inspector. I don't have the means to look into these matters. But of course, the local authority would be bound to take an interest if it came to their ears, wouldn't you say?” A grim smile lit Phyllis's features.
“Not,” explained Constable, “that such a thing would necessarily be illegal. If the building is not open to the public, and no money is changing hands, Miss Knight is quite at liberty to offer her personal hospitality to her friends, no matter what the hour.”
“It depends on what she's offering, surely, inspector. But as I say, that's all really no concern of mine.” Having thrown her pebble into the pool, Phyllis seemed quite content to let the ripples spread of their own accord.
