“We’re anxious to know if he came with a companion.”
“Who hid up, too, and then socked him after a row,” she broke in. “The obvious explanation, surely?”
“There are other possibilities. Someone getting in with duplicate keys after the house was closed, for instance. Have you ever lost or mislaid your keys, Lady Arminel?”
“Never. Anyway, the only house-key I have is of this flat, and there’s no way through.”
“Were you taking parties round on Tuesday afternoon?”
“I don’t. Not my line. I run the gardens and the shop.”
“Were you in the shop, then?” persevered Pollard.
“Yes. From two-fifteen to about ten to six. There were a lot of people in on Tuesday.”
“I don’t think Raymond Peplow is likely to have patronised the shop,” Pollard said, “but all the same, I’d like you to look at this photograph of him, and this description of the clothes he was wearing.”
A curious pallor manifested itself under Lady Arminel’s sun tan. For a moment she sat absolutely immobile, making no attempt to take the papers held out to her, and then got up abruptly.
“Can’t see a thing without my spectacles,” she said.
Pollard watched her searching unconvincingly round the orderly room. Finally she picked up a pair of spectacles from a desk, returned to her chair, put them on and accepted the photograph and typewritten sheet. He saw that her hand was not quite steady at first.
“I’m pretty sure I did see this man,” she said, to his astonishment. “I didn’t notice anyone with him, though.”
Asked about the time when she had seen him, Lady Arminel was definite that it had been towards the end of the afternoon. The garden produce was almost sold out, and she had been regrouping the few remaining punnets of fruit and boxes of cuttings, and chanced to look towards the north gate.
“If it was this Raymond Peplow, he was just standing by himself there, gazing around. He didn’t come to buy anything and I didn’t see him again.”
Her warm colour and confidence had returned. Puzzled by her reactions Pollard watched her narrowly.
“You didn’t recognise him, I suppose, Lady Arminel?”
“No,” she said categorically, “I didn’t. He was a stranger.”
He passed on to Tuesday evening, and learnt that after closing the shop and locking up the day’s takings in her flat, she had given the dachshund a run in the grounds. She had then returned home for a bath and leisurely drink, cooked and eaten her supper, and afterwards relaxed over a newspaper. She had rounded off the evening by listening to some records. She had not received any telephone calls.
“Did you hear any disturbance during the evening?”
“Disturbance?”
“Yes. Dogs barking, for instance.”
Pollard watched her make what he was convinced was a genuine effort to recall the evening.
“Now you mention it, there was a bit of a bark-in at one point. The Emmetts’ bull terrier, and my brother’s hysterical spaniels. I heard it through the music and cursed them. Otto went over to the door and listened, but he’s too intelligent to bark just for the hell of it.”
The dachshund’s tail thumped the floor enthusiastically at the mention of his name. Pollard dismissed an irrelevant mental picture of an equally engaging animal accompanying a double pram on Wimbledon Common.
“Have you any idea at what time this was?” he asked.
“It wasn’t long before I turned in. About half-past ten, I should think.”
Pollard glanced round at Toye, who was completing a note.
“Well, thank you, Lady Arminel,” he said, getting to his feet. “We needn’t keep you any longer. I expect you are in for a busy time, when Lord Seton decides to reopen the house.”
“Lord Seton decides?” she demanded.
“I told him just now that we are through with our investigations on the spot.”
An intent expression came over her face, and he realised that she was hastily reviewing questions of stock and potential sales.
“Please don’t bother to come down,” he said. “We can see ourselves out.”
As they arrived at the car Toye asked if he should drive to the Tirle Arms in Brenting.
“Not on your life,” replied Pollard. “I’m surfeited with the family as it is. What are they all up to, individually or collectively? Straight back to vulgar Crockmouth for me.”
“Funny how she jibbed at looking at the photo,” Toye remarked as they drove out of the forecourt, “and then the next minute admitted seeing Peplow, as cool as a cucumber. And putting on an act about her spectacles after reading the address on that letter in a split second.”
“Playing for time, although what for, I can’t imagine. Was she expecting to see a photograph of someone else, and if so, who the hell was it?”
At the inquest on Raymond Peplow the Crockmouth coroner, who detested sensationalism, merely took evidence of identity and cause of death, and promptly adjourned the proceedings for three weeks, to the baffled disappointment of those members of the public who had managed to get seats after prolonged queueing. Pollard breathed a sigh of relief, told Strickland and Boyce to get back to the Yard, fobbed off the Press to the best of his ability and by three o’clock was sitting in the kitchen of the caretaker’s house at Brent.
Bill Emmett was a stocky man in his late fifties, whose appearance bore out Lord Seton’s testimony of soundness and reliability. He faced Pollard and Toye across the kitchen table, uneasy and sweating slightly, but unshakable under persistent questioning.
“You stick to it that every window and outside door was fastened on the inside when you opened up the public part of the house on Wednesday morning?” Pollard asked.
Emmett passed the tip of his tongue over his lips. “That’s right. Just as I’d left ’em Tuesday evening.”
“Right. I’ll buy that. But just when did you leave them all OK on Tuesday evening?”
“Usual time, when I’d done me round. Ten to six, say. Might’ve bin five to.”
“You told Lady Seton that you’d take a look round with your dog before going to bed on Tuesday night. Did you?”
“What I undertakes, I does,” Emmett replied tersely.
“What time did you do it, and how long were you out?”
He scratched his head, and stared at Pollard with growing hostility. “Just on ten, I went out. Reckon I was back by quarter past. ’Ere, what’s all this in aid of?”
“Did you go alone?”
“I ’ad the dog, same as you said.”
Pollard thrust back his chair, and sat with folded arms, contemplating Emmett.
“Quarter of an hour would be plenty of time for the job, wouldn’t it? Just to slip through the front door of the house which you’d left unbolted by arrangement, lock it on the inside and come out by the courtyard door. What did you get for doing it?”
An angry flush mounted on Emmett’s face as he assimilated Pollard’s remarks.
“’Ere!” he burst out, “Wot’s it you’re trying’ to fix on me? It’s ruddy lies, start ter finish! I never set foot in the ’ouse from shuttin’ up Tuesday to openin’ Wednesday momin’. I’ll swear it, and you can’t prove no different.”
There was a pause.
“If you’ve been speaking the truth,” Pollard said deliberately, “how do you account for the fact that whoever went for Peplow got away without leaving a door or window open?”
“Ow the ’ell should I know?” Emmett almost shouted. “It’s your job ter find out, innit? Not mine. Maybe ’e’d got keys. Mrs. Giles’s place was empty all evenin’ up to when she came back with ’is lordship.”
“Could anyone have hidden, and simply walked out after you’d opened the house on Wednesday morning?”
Emmett looked taken aback. “I ’adn’t thought o’ that. Could’ve. Evenin’s I takes a good look round, but mornin’s I just walks through and opens windows. I’d notice if anythin’ was amiss, bu
t I don’t go searchin’ the place mornin’s.”
“Where do you keep the keys of the north gate and the front and courtyard doors?”
“Tryin’ to make out as I’ve left ’em lyin’ around, are yer? Upstairs landin’ on ’ooks, that’s where I keeps ’em. Ask the missis. Ask me daughter.”
“I will.” With a swift movement Pollard got to his feet, took two strides to an inner door, and flung it open before the two startled women on the other side could take evasive action.
“Come in, Mrs. Emmett,” he said genially. “Sorry to have kept you out of your kitchen so long. Is this your daughter?”
She came in, a plump, easy-going woman pink with confusion, and sat down awkwardly on a chair drawn up for her by Toye.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “Rosalie, she is.”
The teenage girl who followed her in had been crying, and her green eyeshadow had smudged. At the sight of Pollard and Toye she made an unconvincing would-be provocative movement of her shoulders and slumped on to another chair. Pollard studied her with interest, wondering what aspect of the situation had upset her so much. She was quite pretty, he decided, with a kind of naive determination in her face.
Mrs. Emmett confirmed her husband’s statements about Tuesday evening and the keys in his charge, and Pollard made a show of looking through his notes. He sensed nervous tension on the other side of the kitchen table. Emmett’s was understandable enough. His official duties had put him in an invidious position. Mrs. Emmett looked faintly aggrieved. Pollard put her down as stupid, comfort-loving, and rather lazy, and resentful of her household’s being involved in the unpleasantness of an unexplained death. Rosalie seemed more intelligent than her mother. Was she sharp enough to realise that her father might well come under suspicion, and be frightened by this? But she showed no sign of particular affection for him…
Pollard shut his notebook with a snap which made Mrs. Emmett jump. He looked round at the white bull terrier lying couchant in a patch of sunlight, and then back at the Emmetts again.
“What made that dog bark at about half-past ten last Tuesday night?” he rapped out.
Rosalie clapped a hand to her lips. Mrs. Emmett’s mouth gaped helplessly as she stared at her husband, who promptly went over to the offensive.
“Of all the bloody silly questions you’ve arst me this past ’alf-hour, that bloody well takes the biscuit,” he shouted. “’Oo the ell knows wot’s goin’ on in a dog’s ’ead?”
The ensuing silence was broken by a knock at the back door. Bill Emmett leapt to his feet and flung it open. A startled Peggy Blackmore was on the step.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Superintendent Pollard,” she said, “but Scotland Yard want you on the telephone.”
Getting up hastily, Pollard thanked her.
“That will be all for the present,” he said to Bill Emmett. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Emmett and Rosalie.”
Within a couple of minutes he was listening to Sergeant Longman in the seclusion of Lord Seton’s unoccupied office, noting down the information he had asked for about the inmates of Brent. Lord Seton and his brother had excellent war records and their subsequent civilian careers had been above reproach. The Honourable Giles Tirle could be described as a scholar and pale pink, but had no known political affiliations. He was at present in the States, beyond any doubt. Lady Seton had been hailed in the glossies of her day as the Debutante of the Decade, but had vanished into private life on her marriage. Lady Arminel Tirle had been awarded an M.B.E. for her part in the organisation of the Women’s Land Army in the war, and was an active committee member of various bodies concerned with horticulture and the welfare of retired gardeners.
Pollard groaned.
“Haven’t you unearthed anything interesting about any of ’em, Longman?” he demanded.
“Hold on a bit, sir. Now the honourable Mrs. Giles Tirle, she’s a different cup of tea.”
It appeared that Mrs. Giles Tirle, née Felicity Openshaw, had a French mother, was bilingual in English and French, and had taken a First in Modern Languages at Oxford. At the beginning of the war she had gone into Intelligence, and a year before D-Day had been parachuted into Occupied France. Narrowly escaping capture by the Nazis on several occasions, she had come through with distinction, and been decorated by both the French and British governments.
“And she’s put paid to more than one Hun in her day, I bet,” concluded Sergeant Longman.
“Now this is darned interesting,” said Pollard. “I’m glad to have it before interviewing the lady. Any more?”
After hearing that nothing was known to the discredit of William Ernest Emmett, Elsie May Emmett, Ada Ellen Pringle or Margaret Blackmore, or of special interest about them, he congratulated Longman on quick results, and rang off. He sat for a moment deep in thought, and then went in search of Toye. They found a garden seat overlooking the rose garden, and he passed on the gist of the information supplied by Longman. Toye listened intently, making careful notes.
“Let’s recap,” Pollard said when he came to the end. “Wash out Nanny Pringle to begin with. She’s got the physique of a sparrow. But there’s something fishy about all the rest. I don’t deny for a moment that Lord Seton was badly het up last night. Granted that it’s a bit shattering to find someone’s been done in your house, you’d expect more of the stiff upper lip from one of his sort. Then why did the robust Lady Arminel jib at looking at Peplow’s photograph? What did she think she was going to see? Can she have a boyfriend who’s been showing a lot of interest in the miniatures?”
“You wouldn’t picture anything of the sort with her,” said Toye seriously.
“No, you wouldn’t. Even my imagination won’t rise to it, but you never know, of course. As to Lady Seton, her denial of ever having been in the priest’s hole was surprisingly energetic, but there are a good many long-haired blondes these days, natural and artificial, aren’t there? Coming to the Emmetts, it sticks out a mile that somebody they’re anxious to cover turned up at their place at half-past ten on Tuesday night, and we’ve got to find out who it was. But we won’t tackle them again till tomorrow morning.”
“Softening-up effect of a night’s worry?”
“Yeah. Toye, what would you expect a woman to be like who’d been in the Resistance?”
Toye considered. “Cool. Quick-witted. A good liar. Tough as they come.”
“And,” said Pollard thoughtfully, “quick on the draw and not at all squeamish… We know Mrs. Giles has got a key into the public rooms. Substitute her for Lord Seton in my reconstruction of what might have happened. With the sort of experience she’s had, she’d know Peplow was dead. Shutting the panel on him would seem to her the best way out of a tight corner. Maybe that hair’s one of hers. Let’s go and see if she’s a blonde, shall we?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Honourable Mrs. Giles Tirle was very definitely not a blonde. Tall, with dark hair and eyes, and a strong intelligent face, she came to the front door herself, greeted Pollard and Toye pleasantly and invited them in. She led the way into a large, finely-proportioned room. In spite of some good period furniture it had a comfortable, lived-in air. There were bookcases, a scatter of newspapers and periodicals, a recent much-publicised biography on a chair, and a Siamese cat curled tightly as an ammonite on a windowsill. Photographs of two boys at various stages of growth were dotted about.
“Do, please, sit down,” she said. “I know you’ll be taking notes of the conversation,” she added, turning to Toye with amusement in her voice, “so there’s no need for you to huddle uncomfortably in the background.”
“Forgive me if I begin by telling you a number of facts which you already know, Mrs. Tirle,” Pollard said, in response to a politely enquiring glance. He embarked once more on the available information about Raymond Peplow, trying to get her measure as he talked. This is a really formidable personality, he thought.
Felicity Tirle listened to him attentively but without comment. She took the
dead man’s photograph in a matter-of-fact way, and studied it carefully. Finally she covered first the upper and then the lower part of the face.
“No,” she said at last. “I’m afraid this doesn’t ring a bell at all. There were nearly four hundred visitors on Tuesday, you know, and I naturally concentrated on the parties I took round myself. I’m quite certain this man wasn’t among them. May I see the description of the clothes you mentioned?”
As she read it, Pollard watched interest appear in her face.
“Now, this does remind me of something,” she told him, “I’m half French, and often go over to see my mother’s people. Until this moment I’ve never thought about it, but I suppose I accept the different cut of men’s clothes on the Continent as a fact of life. I distinctly remember looking out of the Library window when I was with my last party of the day, and noticing in a casual way that there was a foreign male in my sister-in-law’s lot in the forecourt.”
“Did you notice his face?” Pollard asked, with a growing sense of wariness.
“No, unfortunately. It was simply that his clothes happened to catch my eye. I can only remember that he had dark hair.”
“Did you see him at any time later in the afternoon?”
“No. I’m quite sure about that. When I brought my party down the main staircase at the end of their tour, I saw that there was a bit of a mix-up between the two next lots, my sister-in-law’s being one of them. I took a good look at them in case I felt I ought to weigh in and lend a hand, and I certainly didn’t notice the man again then.”
“Did you, in fact, weigh in, Mrs. Tirle?”
“No,” she replied easily. “I decided that the two guides would be able to cope. There was no one following on: we don’t admit to the house after five. I came back here, and thankfully made myself a cup of tea.”
Her eyes were on his face, with an expression of faint amusement.
Pollard switched abruptly to another topic.
“I suppose that when you joined Lord and Lady Seton to go over to Fulminster, you would cut through the public rooms to reach their wing?”
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