The Murder Cabinet: an Inspector Constable murder mystery (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 7)

by Roger Keevil

  “Holding the car door, sir,” prompted Copper, looking up from his notes.

  “That’s right. And Mrs. Ronson was speaking to me, but then she broke off as one of the chaps went by, and said ‘Oh, Benny’…”

  “That would be Benjamin Fitt, I assume?”

  “If you say so, inspector. I don’t follow all the ins and outs of politics. These days, it’s all too confusing.”

  “So what did Mrs. Ronson have to say to Mr. Fitt, sir?”

  “She said as how she’d had a very interesting conversation with his P.P.S., whatever that may be …”

  “I think you’ll find that’s Parliamentary Private Secretary, Mr. Porter. It means an M.P. who is a sort of unpaid assistant to a minister.”

  “Well, you’d know that better than me, inspector. Anyway, she said something about it being a funny coincidence that Mr. Fitt had chosen, as this P.P.S. thing of his, the M.P. for the constituency where Mr. Fitt hisself grew up. And Mr. Fitt gave a sort of half-laugh and said you did get some funny old coincidences in politics, and then Mrs. Ronson said something about ‘not many coincidences as funny as the name of one of the ladies who’d gone to this M.P. for help’. But then she said there’d be plenty of time to talk about that back up at the Hall, and then she climbed into the car, and off they all went.”

  Constable glanced at his junior. “Got all that, Copper?”

  “I think so, sir,” replied the sergeant, flexing his wrist. “Although I really wish I’d learnt shorthand. I think I’m going to record stuff on my phone in future.”

  “Sorry about that, sergeant,” said Gideon. “I know I go on a bit, but I reckon that’s probably everything I can tell you, ‘cos they all went off in their cars straight after that, so you can give your fingers a bit of a rest.”

  “Ah, sadly he can’t, Mr. Porter,” contradicted Constable. “You weren’t the only person serving last night, were you? And that being the case, we’re going to have to speak to your waitress as well. If you can tell me where she lives. Is she a local girl?”

  “She is, inspector. She lives at Cross’s Farm, just round the corner and up Sloe Lane, but you don’t need to go chasing after her. She’s here. She helps out my Jerry in the kitchen, doing veg prep and suchlike. She’s out there now.”

  “That’s extremely convenient, sir.”

  Gideon heaved himself to his feet. “Do you want me to go and get her?”

  “Would you, please, Mr. Porter.” Constable halted the landlord as he moved towards the kitchen. “But I think it would be best if you didn’t tell her why we’re here. I’m under strict instructions to keep this whole case under wraps as long as possible, given all its ramifications. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have told you, except that I know I can rely on your discretion.”

  “I don’t need telling twice, inspector,” said Gideon solemnly. “You leave it to me. I’ll just say that something’s come up after last night’s meal, and you’d like to ask her a few questions. How’s that?”

  “That would do perfectly, Mr. Porter.”

  With a nod, Gideon turned and headed for the bar, and a few moments later, a young girl appeared around the corner of the snug. She looked to be approaching twenty, slightly plump, with fair hair and a fresh country complexion. She hesitated when she saw the detectives.

  “Gideon says you want to see me,” she faltered.

  “Oh, nothing to worry about.” Constable sought to put the girl at ease by assuming his most comfortable and avuncular manner. “We’re police officers.” He introduced himself and his colleague. “It’s just that we need to ask you a few questions about what happened at the dinner here last night, because there’s a matter we’re looking into, and we hope you might have heard something that could help us. So why don’t you sit down, and we’ll have a little chat.”

  The girl perched on the edge of a chair, still looking apprehensive.

  “Can I just make a note of your name, miss,” said Copper gently, taking his cue from his superior officer.

  “Yes. It’s Lena.”

  “Would that be short for anything?”

  Lena blushed. “Do I have to tell you?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, miss,” persisted Copper with a puzzled look. “Just so’s I’ve got everything correct. So, Lena is short for … what? Angelina, is it?”

  Lena gave a profound sigh. “Please, don’t tell anyone. It’s so embarrassing.” She took a deep breath, and then blurted, “It’s Thumbelina.”

  Copper maintained an admirably straight face. “Oh yes, miss.” He swallowed. “That’s … er … unusual.”

  Lena looked thoroughly downcast. “It’s my mum’s fault. She always loved that fairy story when she was a kid, and after she’d seen that film about Hans Christian Andersen, that was it. My gran says she never stopped singing the song. So when I was born, she stuck me with the name. My dad never got a word in. But you won’t let on, will you?” she pleaded. “I’d never hear the last of it from my friends.”

  “Your secret is safe with us, miss,” Copper assured her. “And can I just make a note of the surname?” He mentally crossed his fingers that there were to be no more unconventional revelations forthcoming.

  “It’s Cross.”

  “Thank you, miss. And I gather that you live in the village. Oh, of course, it’s at Cross’s Farm, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s my dad’s farm. We keep cattle.”

  Constable took over the interview. “But you work here for Mr. Porter. How long have you been doing that?”

  “Since I left school. A bit more than a year now.”

  “Not tempted to go into the family business?” smiled Constable.

  “I’m not really that fond of cows,” replied Lena with a moue. “They stand on your feet.”

  “So you came here to work at the Dammett Well, helping out Mr. Porter and his son,” said Constable, gently bringing the conversation around to the investigation. “And you were one of those who served the meal to the private party who dined here last night.”

  “Yes.” Lena gave a slight giggle. “Actually, it was pretty scary. I mean, Gideon had told me I’d be needed to serve a private party in the dining room, but he didn’t say anything more than that, so when the Prime Minister and all these other important people turned up, I got really nervous in case I did something stupid like spilling the food down someone.”

  “So you knew who the guests were?”

  “Well, not really. I knew Mrs. Ronson, of course, because I’d seen her on the telly, and I think I’d seen some of the other faces, but I didn’t know their names. Why, is it important?”

  “No, not in the least, miss.” Constable gave an inward sigh. This was not going to make the task of gathering information any easier. “But what I’d like to ask is, if by any chance you heard any of the conversations between the ministers during the course of your duties.”

  “I don’t really know. I wasn’t paying that much attention …” Lena frowned in thought, but then her face cleared. “Oh, there was one thing. And I wouldn’t have listened, except that someone was talking about school exam results and whether they were getting better or worse. I didn’t do very well in my exams when I left school,” she confessed with a touch of embarrassment. “But one of the gentlemen … I think he was the one sitting on Mrs. Ronson’s right …”

  “Hold on a second, miss,” intervened Copper. He leafed swiftly through the pages of his notebook. “I think that would have been Mr. Grade, sir.”

  “Sounds likely,” agreed Constable. “So what were they saying, Lena?”

  “It was something about whether the figures were being fiddled, and the gentleman said he was going to crack down on anything of the sort, and Mrs. Ronson sort of sneered and asked who was going to check up on the people doing the checks. She said something about a qualified opinion. And then the lady sat the other side of the gentleman, she said some foreign expression … something like ‘quis’ … ‘quis’ … no, I can’t remember what
it was.”

  “‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’, perhaps?” suggested Constable. And in response to Lena’s shrug, “‘Who guards the guards?’” he explained. “So that lady would have been …?” He turned to Copper for verification.

  “Mrs. Nye, sir.”

  “Thought as much. It’s the sort of legal Latin you’d hope the Justice Secretary would have at her fingertips. Anyway, do go on, Lena. Did they say any more?”

  “Well, Mrs. Ronson said something about there being fraud everywhere you turned, it seemed to her. And nobody’s family was exempt, specially those with the highest connections. Parents, wives, husbands. ‘But you’d know that better than me, Dee, wouldn’t you?’, she said. But everything had to come out into the open in the end.”

  “She didn’t get more specific?”

  “No, and I didn’t hear any more, because Gideon came up and gave me a nudge because he thought I was being slow, so I had to come back to the kitchen.”

  Constable paused for a moment to digest the waitress’s statements. “I see. And did you have a chance to hear any of the other guests talking between themselves during the meal?”

  “Well no, not really. See, when I was back in the kitchen, Gideon told me off because he thought I’d been eavesdropping on purpose, which I wasn’t, so I made sure I got on with things after that and didn’t hang about. Anyway, once they got to the coffee, I didn’t go back into the dining room any more, because Gideon wanted me to help Jerry with the clearing up in the kitchen, so I stayed out there after that.” She twisted her fingers together in her lap. “In fact, I ought to get back out there, or else Jerry’ll be after me if everything’s not ready in time for him to do the lunches.”

  “Of course, Lena,” said Constable with an easy smile. “If you’ve told us all you know, then we won’t keep you. You must get back to your work.”

  Lena stood. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t sound as if I know very much. I mean, about whatever it is you wanted. I don’t suppose I’ve helped at all, have I?”

  “I’m sure you have,” Constable reassured her. “Don’t give it another thought. Off you go now.”

  “And you won’t say anything about … you know?” With a shaky smile and a nervous backward glance, Lena made her escape.

  Chapter 9

  Gideon Porter had resumed his normal place behind the bar, and was engaged in polishing glasses as the detectives made their way back into the main room of the Dammett Well Inn.

  “‘Ere, I hope you ain’t been upsetting my staff, inspector,” he said, looking up. “‘Cos Lena, she’s just shot off into the back like a startled ferret.”

  “I hope we haven’t done anything of the sort, Mr. Porter,” replied Andy Constable. “We always try to be as un-intimidating as possible, except when it comes down to the really hardened villains, and I can’t really see that your Miss Cross comes into that category. But when you see her, do please reassure her that whatever she’s told us is in complete confidence, and she doesn’t need to worry about it going any further.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s all right then. She’s a good girl. And I hope whatever she had to say was useful.”

  “That remains to be seen, Mr. Porter. We shall have to give some thought to everything we’ve been told. In the meantime, Copper and I should be getting along.”

  Gideon looked around and lowered his voice, as if expecting eavesdroppers to be lurking in the corners of the bar. “So do you reckon you’re any closer to finding out who did this to Mrs. … you know who?”

  Constable gave a slight grimace. “Who can tell? But at least we’ve covered what she did when she was here in the village.”

  “Well, some of it, anyway,” said Gideon.

  Constable’s attention was alerted. “Sorry, Mr. Porter? How do you mean?”

  “Well, I’d seen her earlier, of course, hadn’t I?” stated the publican.

  “Really?” Constable was torn between surprise and exasperation. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”

  “I didn’t think of it till now,” responded Gideon defensively. “Over to the church, it was. Only caught a glimpse, mind, but it was her all right. Getting out of that big black car of hers. It was the car I noticed first. Parked behind the other one. And I thought, ‘Who’s that, then?’, and then of course I realised. But she didn’t come over here, so I never spoke to her then. No, she headed off towards the church.”

  “So you can’t tell us any more?”

  “No. Maybe you’d be better off having a word with the vicar.”

  “Oh yes.” Constable smiled in fond recollection. “I remember Mr. Pugh very well. Charming old chap.”

  “Oh no,” said Gideon. “No, he ain’t with us any more. He went … oh, must be about two year ago.”

  “Oh. Where did he go?” enquired Copper. “Wasn’t he a bit old to go off to another parish?”

  “He went to join the choir invisible, sergeant,” explained the landlord. “And now he’s taking his eternal rest in the churchyard, along of his parishioners.”

  “Ah. Sorry,” said Copper humbly.

  “So if it’s anything about the church you’re after, inspector, you’d best have a word with Rory.”

  “Rory?”

  “The new vicar.”

  “And where will I find him?”

  Gideon chuckled. “Just through in the other bar, inspector. Popped in for a chat and a swift half just before you arrived.” He raised his voice. “Rory … if you ain’t busy, can you pop through for a word?”

  The door to the lounge bar opened, and a woman appeared. She was plump and cheerful-looking, with dark brown hair worn in a chin-length bob, and her age was difficult to guess - somewhere around forty, estimated Constable. And the bright purple cardigan she was draped in almost, but not quite, drew attention away from the clerical collar she wore. In her hand were the dregs of a glass of stout. She advanced on the detectives with a broad smile.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” She extended a hand towards Constable. “Rory English. What can I do for you?”

  “Rory?” queried Copper, pen poised above his notebook.

  “Short for Aurora,” explained the vicar. “Roman Goddess of the Dawn. Although I’ve never thought of myself as particularly goddess-like. As you can see.” She laughed, indicating her generous frame. “And anyway, I wouldn’t want to seem disrespectful to my ultimate boss. So please, just call me Rory.”

  “And this is Inspector Constable and Sergeant Copper,” introduced Gideon.

  “I thought I detected the whiff of officialdom,” said Rory. “So, how can I help?”

  “They’ve had trouble up at the Hall …” began Gideon.

  “I think, perhaps,” Constable forestalled him, “that we’d better take it from here, Mr. Porter. In the interests of discretion.” He gave the landlord a warning look.

  “Ah. Right you are, inspector.” Gideon winked. “My lips is sealed. Publican’s honour.”

  Rory drained the remnants of her glass. “Look, I was just on my way back over to the church, inspector. Why don’t you walk with me, and you can tell me what this is all about.”

  “By all means.” Constable held back the door, and the three emerged on to the High Street and headed towards the church.

  The Parish Church of St. Salyve was a typical example of the ancient places of worship found in so many English country villages. Built in the local mellow grey stone with scattered adornments of flint-work, it sat comfortably at the heart of a picturesque churchyard dotted with moss-grown tombstones, many of them tilted to a rakish angle, interspersed with the severe classical table-tombs of worthies from the eighteenth century and the more extravagant statuary-adorned monuments of their Victorian descendants. Noble horse-chestnut trees, their splay-fingered leaves rustling in the gentle breeze, seemed to defer to a venerable yew, many of whose aged limbs required the aid of timber supports.

  As the three passed through the lychgate, Constable was moved to remark, “This is a ve
ry fine church you have here, reverend.”

  “Rory, please,” replied the vicar. “I like to run the parish as informally as I can. Lord knows, we have to do something these days to avoid scaring people away.” She smiled comfortably. “But yes, you’re right, inspector. It’s a lovely building. I feel very lucky to have been posted here.”

  “Norman, isn’t it?”

  “Mostly, yes. The tower’s got a bit of Saxon in it, and there’s some rather surprising fan-vaulting in the Lady Chapel. Actually, we were very lucky. The Victorians almost got their hands on the building and started carrying out some of their pseudo-medieval so-called improvements, but fortunately, the diocese ran out of money at just the right time, so they only got as far as adding a rather snooty Gothic side-aisle on the far side of the church. You can’t see it from here.”

  “Something of a blessing, I gather.”

  “You might very well say that, inspector,” smiled Rory. She shot a sideways look at Constable. “However, I dare say you haven’t come here to discuss ecclesiastical architecture. So you’d better come inside, we can make ourselves comfortable in the vestry, and you can tell me what this is all about.” She held open the massive iron-bound oaken door, obviously a veteran of many centuries of use, and ushered the detectives into the cool interior, where dust-motes twinkled in the sunbeams falling from the stained-glass windows.

  “Take a seat, gentlemen,” said the vicar as she led the way into the vestry, indicating a pair of battered cane garden chairs facing her desk. “I dare say I could rustle up a cup of tea, if you have the time. Isn’t that what one is always supposed to offer the police when they come calling?”

  “Time presses, I’m afraid, vic… Rory,” replied Constable.