A moment later she stepped tentatively inside through the door Clifford now held open. She looked around at the brightly decorated kitchen, well equipped with a long rack of pans for every possible culinary purpose. A row of potted herbs filled the windowsill. On the nearest counter, a floral tray stood with a ready-plated supper of cold cuts under a cloth cover. She pulled her jacket tighter round her shoulders. ‘It certainly feels chilly. And rather forlorn. Let’s not hang around now that you’ve broken in… hang on though, you didn’t?’
Clifford drew out a large steel key from one of his pockets. ‘Understandably, Mrs Campbell was unwilling to stay here since the discovery of Mr Atkins’ body. She contacted me to ask if Silas might be available to keep an extra eye on the property. Word will have travelled fast that the house is standing empty.’
‘Gracious yes, it’s the least we could do. Where is Silas?’
‘Around and about.’
‘Come on then.’ Eleanor shivered. ‘It does feel odd creeping around a dead man’s house.’
Clifford nodded. ‘I agree, my lady, but “Justice is a certain rectitude of mind whereby a man does what he ought to do in the circumstances confronting him.”’
‘Charlie Chaplin again?’
‘Thomas Aquinas, my lady. But one could say they were in the same business of putting life in perspective. Shall we?’
Twenty-Seven
He led her out into the hallway, the noise of their footsteps muffled by the full-length Wilton runner carpet. Halfway along, they turned into a room filled with leather Chesterfields and huge oak bookcases. Eleanor caught her breath at the sight of one of the silver photograph frames acting as a bookend on the shelves. Set inside was a picture of her and Atkins playing bowls on the lawn at Henley Hall. Her uncle sat clapping and smiling in a lawn chair. Clifford coughed gently. ‘I remember that day too, my lady. It was a fun afternoon that taught us all you were better at winning than losing.’
She gave a weak smile and picked up the photograph frame. ‘Looking at a photo of someone who has passed away feels like they’ve just walked out of your life that very minute. What an unwelcome rush of emotions. Poor uncle, poor Mr Atkins.’ She fought the lump in her throat. The eerie stillness made her shiver as she accepted the pristinely starched handkerchief Clifford held out.
Pulling herself together, she crossed the floor and peered into the empty gun case mounted on the wall. Rectangular stains of oil dotted the base of the cabinet, but there was no tin of gun oil, only a sheepskin mop and a chamber brush. The police must have taken it, she guessed, along with the shotgun.
But it was the enormous carved wooden desk that caught Eleanor’s attention next. She moved the deep-buttoned, green leather chair aside easily with her knee. ‘I’ve never seen a gentleman’s desk so empty. No files, notebooks or tray of correspondence. No papers anywhere. Have the police removed everything for evidence, do you suppose?’
‘Given their hasty acceptance that Mr Atkins died by his own “careless hand”, I fear not. Indeed, no one has even thought to remove the meal Mrs Campbell had prepared earlier on the day in question. Someone, however, has stripped his desk of any papers.’
Eleanor scratched her cheek thoughtfully. ‘So… perhaps whoever killed Atkins truly believed Atkins was blackmailing him?’
‘Possibly.’ He tapped the ends of his fingers together pensively. ‘It is possible the theft of papers was intended to ensure the police would draw the same conclusion, that Mr Atkins was blackmailing the killer.’ He folded his hands together. ‘I have another theory, one that has bounced from your initial thoughts.’
‘Go on.’
‘That the killer did indeed believe there was something incriminating here amongst Mr Atkins’ papers and he was anxious to remove all and any possible evidence.’
‘And he would have just scooped up everything in his haste to get out quickly. I don’t suppose Sergeant Wilby even noticed the desk was cleared. Unless of course, he’s our man and he was the one who cleared it.’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Are the drawers empty too?’
Clifford pulled the top drawer open. ‘Empty, save for a lid-less ink pen and a handkerchief.’
The other drawers were much the same, just a few incidental items floating in a wooden sea of emptiness: a paper fastener torn from its charge of papers, a magnifying glass and a roll of red government ribbon for sealing authenticated documents.
She looked around the room for inspiration. A dark stain on the backrest of the leather desk chair caught her eye. ‘You know, Clifford, our killer would surely have been in quite a state after moving the body from the quarry to here. And the dead are notoriously uncooperative. It must have been a struggle to even get the body from the car into the house.’
Clifford nodded slowly. ‘I wonder…’ He dropped to his knees by the chair.
Not knowing what else to do, she followed suit. ‘How odd, it’s got five legs but… whatever are you… the wheels, you clever bean! The killer pushed this to the door and then wheeled poor Mr Atkins through into here, didn’t he?’
‘I very much suspect so, my lady. And as it would be less conspicuous, I imagine he used the back door, just as we have.’
They took a different side of the desk each and shuffled on their haunches as they examined the floor.
‘Clifford, Atkins’ magnifying glass!’ Eleanor shouted and then clapped her hands over her mouth as her voice echoed out into the hallway.
‘Good idea, my lady,’ Clifford replied at half her volume. A few minutes later, he let out an uncharacteristic whistle over by the door. ‘Bingo!’
‘What have you found?’ She dropped to his side again and took the magnifying glass. ‘I say, bingo indeed! Wheel marks. You can see a definite indent. Let’s follow them out to the back door.’
It didn’t take long to find the trail left by the wheels of the chair. Aside from the wooden sections of the floor, the indent was quite clear once they knew what to search for.
‘But look here, Clifford.’ Eleanor knelt carefully away from where she was pointing. ‘There’s a white powder caught in the tracks in some places, but not all of them. And an awful lot of muddy boot prints that have stamped across our evidence trail, quite literally.’
‘Those will be the police, I suspect, my lady. There will be even more by the front door. Whilst we feel they may have been hasty in their conclusions as to the circumstances of Mr Atkins’ demise, I am sure they would have arrived in good number.’
‘Oh absolutely! The more dim-witted buffoons you have at the scene, the more you can stuff up working out what happened.’
‘And the more separate reports you can guarantee will be filed all backing up the original conclusion of accidental death.’
‘Clifford! You’re right. If it is Wilby, he probably marched about the place pointing at all the obvious clues he left to make the whole thing look like an accident.’
He stood up. ‘Whoever moved Mr Atkins on the chair was at the quarry. In fact, I would stake my reputation on it.’
‘What have you found?’
He held up his gloved finger. ‘Chalk and sand. Denser patches up by the back door, diminishing as the wheel tracks move towards the room in which Mr Atkins was found.’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘I know being shot isn’t a very elegant way to go, but to then be manhandled in one’s own house really isn’t cricket.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘So, we need to find out if Wilby has an alibi for the time I saw Atkins shot in the quarry.’
Clifford nodded. ‘If he has a watertight alibi, then it couldn’t have been him who pulled the trigger.’
‘If, being quite the operative word. But how on earth could we find out? It’s not the kind of information he’s likely to impart to me, or you.’
‘Agreed, my lady. I can make enquiries, and there is always Abigail, but…’ He shrugged.
‘Well.’ Eleanor held the door open. ‘Whoever the killer was, he was either scared out of his wits by what he’d done
or the most cold-blooded murderer imaginable.’
‘How so?’
She stepped across to the supper tray on the worktop. ‘Everything is untouched as we know Atkins never made it home alive from the quarry to eat. Except…’ She pointed to the cut-glass brandy decanter. It was open, with the decanter’s stopper lying next to an unused brandy glass. ‘Except it looks like someone helped themselves to a swig of Atkins’ finest Napoleon Brandy.’
‘And as no gentleman would leave the stopper off a decanter of fine brandy and nobody except the police have been in the house since his demise…’
‘… and as I imagine even Chipstone’s constabulary wouldn’t contaminate a crime scene by swigging from the dead man’s decanter…’
‘… it must have been the killer.’ Clifford shook his head slowly. ‘It would seem our killer needed to steady his nerves. Nevertheless, a true monster, my lady.’
She nodded in agreement. ‘I know. Drinking a dead man’s liquor when you’re the reason he is no more and standing over him whilst doing so. An unimaginable monster.’
Clifford coughed gently. ‘No, my lady, I was referring to the murderer drinking directly from the decanter.’ He shuddered. ‘What sort of man would countenance such a thing!’
As Clifford locked the back door, Eleanor caught a movement behind the apple trees.
Cupping her hands in front of her mouth, she called out. ‘Trespassing, Mr Cartwright?’
The farmer stepped out from the orchard and strolled towards them, a shotgun resting in the crook of his arm. ‘Can’t say that I am, Lady Swift.’
She folded her arms. ‘Really? Well, from where I’m standing it looks very much like you are doing precisely what you accused Mr Clifford and myself of a few days ago at the quarry. What was it? Ah yes! “Lurking about trespassing somewhere you’ve no business”.’
Cartwright pulled a toothpick from his pocket and tucked it into the corner of his mouth, letting the end poke out. ‘Must be summat odd about where you’re standing then, Lady Swift.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous! You have no right to be on Mr Atkins’ property.’
‘Ridiculous, am I? Folks call me many things, mostly Thomas as it happens to be my name, but not ridiculous. But then, most folks have manners.’
‘Do they, Mr Cartwright? In that case, you won’t mind explaining what you are doing here. Mr Clifford and I are being neighbourly and keeping a watchful eye on Mr Atkins’ house whilst his estate is sorted out.’ Well, it was partly true.
Cartwright shrugged. ‘Maybe I am too.’
Eleanor scowled. ‘Only you aren’t. Perhaps I should go back inside and telephone Sergeant Wilby and ask him to come out here and ask you where you were when Mr Cornell died?’
Cartwright started at Cornell’s name, but instantly regained his composure. He rolled the toothpick round his mouth. ‘You do that, Lady Swift. Only leave the door ajar so I can hear you. ’Cos from where I was standing when you dragged Wilby out to the quarry, the sergeant didn’t seem too impressed with anything you had to say. And I reckon him bellowing what he thought of you trying to report me for trespassing, or maybe… murder, would carry all the way out here.’
A discreet cough behind her shoulder interrupted her reply. She threw her hands up. ‘Okay, Clifford, you try!’
He stepped forward and nodded to the farmer. ‘Mr Cartwright.’
He nodded back. ‘Mr Clifford.’
‘Would you mind telling us where you were between the hours of eleven on Friday night and eight on Saturday morning? I realise we have no right to ask, but would be most obliged if you could furnish us with the information.’
The farmer smiled and glanced at Eleanor. ‘You see, you just need to ask polite like. If you must know I had some sick lambing ewes and the vet came over from West Radington around five and ten to eleven. He stayed for half an hour and then I went back to my good lady wife in the farmhouse.’
‘And did you stay in from then on, Mr Cartwright?’
‘Happen I had to check on ewes again around one in morning. And before you ask, Jake Smiggins, my farmhand, can verify all of that as can Mr Beard, the West Radington vet.’
‘Thank you, Mr Cartwright, you’ve been most helpful. One last question, you say you went to check on your ewes again around one?’
‘That’s right. I was there about an hour-ish and then went back to bed for the night. Well, what was left of it as I had to be up at five.’ He glanced from Clifford to Eleanor and back. ‘Seems mighty odd, you asking these questions seeing as Jack took his own life.’
Eleanor stepped in quickly. ‘Possibly, Mr Cartwright, but the fact is you still haven’t explained what you’re doing on Mr Atkins’ property.’
The farmer looked at her coldly. ‘Mr Atkins’ house, and land, backs onto mine. A farmer’s got to protect his assets, same as all the moneymen do up London. Only I can’t lock my fields up against gypsies and squatters, but I can scare the living daylights out of them so they leave sharpish.’ He indicated the shotgun he had in the crook of his arm and winked at her. ‘Good day, Lady Swift. Mr Clifford.’ He touched his cap and wandered off back through into the apple orchard.
‘So help me, I’ll…’ Eleanor looked around for something to throw at his retreating form. ‘Clifford, that man is—’
‘Immensely enjoying irritating you, my lady. It is worth remembering the words of Mrs Kenny, “He who angers you, conquers you.”’
She stomped off, calling over her shoulder, ‘He doesn’t anger me, Clifford, he infuriates me!’
Twenty-Eight
Fifteen minutes later Clifford pulled into a parking space alongside Chipstone Police Station’s steps.
‘Bingo! That’s a perfectly worked out plan,’ Eleanor enthused.
‘If you say so, my lady.’
‘Now, you see, here we need to broach the topic of your delivery, Clifford. Like your facial expressions, you really only do have two: inscrutable or disapproving. You managed to make that statement sound both.’
‘I am sorry, my lady,’ Clifford deadpanned. ‘I’ll work on a third.’
‘Thank you. Now, at least we managed to drag an alibi out of Cartwright for the time of Cornell’s death. Well, you did.’
Clifford nodded. ‘True, my lady, although even if Mr Beard, the vet, and young Jake, the farmhand, can vouch for its veracity, Mr Cartwright would still have had time to drive to Mr Cornell’s house, kill him, plant the fake suicide note, and return between the hours of say, two and four Saturday morning.’
Eleanor shrugged. ‘We’ll see. In the meantime we’ve got another suspect to interrogate and distract while you perform a little sleight of hand. And I shall be the very essence of calm and convincing, just watch.’ She got out of the car and slammed the door. She couldn’t be sure, but was that a muttered, ‘Oh, dear Lord,’ she heard from the driver’s seat?
In the lacklustre reception area the policeman behind the counter greeted Eleanor with a notable lack of enthusiasm. She crossed to the desk and announced herself. ‘I am Lady Swift. I wish to speak with Sergeant Wilby on a most important matter.’
‘Well, Lady Swift, if it’s most important, you won’t mind waiting.’
‘Waiting?’ Eleanor always minded waiting. It wasn’t that she was innately impatient, it was just that any patience she had had as a small child had entirely evaporated by the time she was a young adult. ‘I wish to see him now.’
‘Then you are in the wrong place.’ At the look on Eleanor’s face the young constable hurried on. ‘What I meant to say, m’lady, is Sergeant Wilby is over at the town hall.’
Eleanor gestured to the three wooden chairs against one wall. ‘Is that your waiting room?’
The policeman nodded and added, ‘Mr Clifford,’ as Clifford joined her. Eleanor pursed her lips. ‘Sit down, Clifford.’
He took the chair next to her, sitting poker upright.
Once the constable had returned to leaning on the counter, Eleanor turned to Cliffo
rd. ‘How come everybody knows you, Clifford? If we were to venture four thousand miles to Timbuktu, we would still be shaking the sand from our boots when a turbaned gentleman would nod and say, ‘Mr Clifford,’ as he shuffled past with his donkey. Don’t you tire of being so widely known?’
‘My being recognised is just a reflection of your late uncle’s reputation, my lady. And as to Timbuktu, it was always a pleasure to receive such a warm and cordial welcome, particularly given the local troubles. But forgive my correction, it is not a turban they wear in those parts but a tagelmust, really quite a different form of headwear.’
‘Touché!’ Eleanor muttered.
The wait for Sergeant Wilby seemed as interminable as one of Clifford’s long-winded explanations. So when the sergeant returned, Eleanor almost tripped over her own feet as she jumped up to greet him.
‘You have a visitor, Sarge,’ the front desk officer pointed out needlessly.
‘So I see. Lady Swift. Mr Clifford.’
Clifford acknowledged Wilby with a faint tilt of his head.
Turning to Eleanor, Wilby crossed his arms over his portly frame. ‘Lady Swift, I am a busy man. I trust your call is important enough to warrant police time?’
‘Unquestionably so.’
‘It had better not be any more nonsense about Mayor Kingsley.’
‘Indeed not, my visit does not concern Mayor Kingsley at all.’
Wilby leaned in, glowering. ‘Just as well because I checked and he never sent you round here to ask questions.’
‘Good gracious, Sergeant, I never said he had sent me to question you. You must have assumed something to that effect from our discourse.’
‘But!’ Wilby looked fit to blow. ‘Lady Swift. Might I advise you that wasting police time is a prosecutable offence.’
‘Trust me, Sergeant,’ she said, ‘you will definitely want to hear what we have to say.’
Wilby eyed her distrustfully. ‘I haven’t seen any evidence of that to date.’
A Very English Murder Page 17
