Mrs Hayter, a plump cheerful brunette some years younger than her husband, was duly fetched and expressed complete agreement.
‘What a horrid thought!’ she exclaimed. ‘A murderer using our car! I’m so glad it was safely under lock and key all night. We sometimes insist on leaving it out, as the Stantons’ garage will only take two, but by good luck Mrs Stanton’s was in dock. Good luck for us, I mean.’
‘Annoying for her,’ Pollard agreed. ‘An almost new Austin Mini Clubman, isn’t it? I remember noticing it.’
‘I think her husband was being fussy about the clutch. She said she hadn’t found anything wrong with it. I expect he’d got an eye on the guarantee: the legal mind, you know.’
‘To be absolutely accurate, our car wasn’t under lock and key all night,’ Colonel Hayter interposed. ‘We ran it into the garage when we arrived just before six, but left the doors open for Gerald. He was late back, and his car was outside the front door until we all turned in about eleven, when he put it away.’
‘It’s the latter part of the night we’re interested in,’ Pollard said. ‘Did you by any chance hear any activity going on in the lane at the back of the house? Which way did your room face?’
‘Over the garden and the lane, but I was dead to the world and didn’t hear a thing all night. You, too, weren’t you, Jean?’
‘Flat out,’ she agreed. ‘We all overslept, actually, and didn’t sit down to breakfast until half past nine. Mrs Stanton, who’s the world’s most efficient housekeeper, was frightfully apologetic, knowing we wanted to get off in good time.’
‘Gerald Stanton has damn good whisky,’ remarked her husband. ‘It must have been our nightcaps that knocked us out, on top of a pretty hectic day all round. Talking of drinks….’
On the pretext of having urgent calls to make, Pollard politely declined.
‘We must push on, I’m afraid,’ he told the Hayters, getting to his feet. ‘I know, of course, that I needn’t ask you both to treat this visit of ours in the strictest confidence. If anyone understands about security, it’s the Army.’
‘You’ve said it,’ Colonel Hayter replied, unconsciously drawing himself up.
On the road from Longstaple to Alchester, Pollard and Toye agreed that the spate of information produced by the Hayters was almost suspicious.
‘I’ll swear they’re both a hundred per cent genuine, though, wouldn’t you, sir?’ Toye asked.
‘Yeah,’ Pollard agreed. ‘It’s unimaginable that Stanton roped them in as accomplices. Let’s do a recap. Hayter’s regimental dinner in London must have been a stroke of pure luck for Stanton, making it possible to bring in a couple of witnesses to the time of his return from Warhampton, and the rest. It looks as though he wangled Mrs Stanton’s car being on the premises, so that his own could be in his garage overnight with the Hayters’. Otherwise it might have had to stand out in the road, out of politeness to the visitors, making it impossible to cope with Lister’s body.’
‘Looks like things are falling in,’ Toye conceded with cautious satisfaction. ‘Then those nightcaps doped, so that he could get on with the job.’
‘This is it. Plenty of sleeping pills around these days, and Stanton as host would have dished out the drinks. Did he doctor two or three of them, I wonder?’
‘Do you think Mrs Stanton’s been an accessory all through?’
‘Impossible to say at this stage. Reverting to that night, Stanton would have allowed time for the dope to work, and then gone quietly out by way of the garden, and got going. The moon was in the first quarter, so he’d have enough light at that hour without risking a torch. And of course he’d have made preparations beforehand: shifting some of the soil in the trench, for instance.’
‘Rigor would have been fairly well established by midnight, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes. I think he would probably have managed to get the body out of the boot when he put the car away, and lined up something in the way of a well-oiled wheelbarrow from his garden shed.’
They relapsed into silence. A couple of miles further on Pollard abruptly shifted his position.
‘With all this circumstantial evidence, I’m now morally certain that Stanton murdered Lister,’ he said. ‘I’m just as certain that we’ll never get direct evidence of the murder. I can’t believe that with all the publicity there’s been, any witnesses from Warhampton or Corbury wouldn’t have come forward. And any material traces will have gone long ago, with the Stantons having left the Edge Crescent house and other people living there for several months. I bet Stanton’s changed his car, too, after giving the boot the full treatment. Of course, the murder presupposes the forgery, and I’m pretty confident that once the experts are turned loose on the papers they’ll nose it out. If the papers aren’t forthcoming, well, that’ll speak for itself. We’ve got the evidence that Lister found those notes of old LeWarne’s, and instantly became suspicious. What it’s absolutely essential for us to do is to prove that there was contact between Lister and Stanton.’
Toye agreed, slowing down as they came to a village.
‘Looks like tackling the office staff’s the only way to do it. If any old stager in Corbury had spotted Lister around, according to the Super it would have been the talk of the place in next to no time.’
‘This is it. And as I’ve said before, it’s dicey. Quite apart from, say, Stanton’s secretary’s personal safety, nobody can absolutely guarantee he won’t give us the slip and make for a handy numbered account in a Swiss bank and some place where he’d be non-extraditable. Good Lord, look at the Oldest Inhabitant stepping in front of a moving car ... the chap’s managed to pull up, and now the old boy’s shaking his fist at him.’
Toye commented caustically that ninety per cent of British pedestrians still thought we were in the horse and cart age.
‘Thanks to that bright idea of yours about Lister filling up his car ahead of a long run, we’ve at least got a possible date to work on,’ Pollard resumed, as they emerged into open country. ‘But I’m not going any further until I’ve talked things over with Engle, or another of our tame legal consultants back at the Yard, and put the whole thing to one of the Fraud Squad boys. If I get the green light, and any sort of a lead from Stanton’s people, I’m going to charge him with the murder, and hope for the best. We’ll get a decent night’s sleep at Alchester, and go up by the first train tomorrow.’
At Alchester they put up at the Cathedral Hotel. As they sat over their coffee in the lounge, Toye discovered a copy of the week’s Corbury Courier, and studied its contents with interest. Presently he showed Pollard a conspicuous item under FORTHCOMING EVENTS.
EDGEHILL COURT
CORBURY
GARDENS OPEN TO THE PUBLIC ON SUNDAY, 17 JUNE,
BY KIND PERMISSION OF MRS GERALD STANTON
2.00 P.M. — 6.00 P.M.
REFRESHMENTS, PLANT AND PRODUCE STALLS
ADMISSION 10p. CHILDREN 5p.
PROCEEDS TO CORBURY MILLENARY FUND
‘From the look of things,’ Pollard commented, ‘Mrs Gerald has now completely identified herself with the Lady of the Manor image.’
Old Bryce, who had stayed on as gardener at Edgehill Court, conceded that the roses had never made a better show.
Standing in the rose garden during a tour of inspection on Sunday morning, Shirley Stanton was in a state of euphoria. This colour, this form and fragrance suffused in midsummer sunlight, was hers. Hers to share at will with the people of Corbury. She looked across at her old home in Edgehill Crescent, part of another life, and then at the spill of houses down the scarp to the vale below. A glow of warmth towards their inmates pervaded her: the LeWarne mantle was about her shoulders.
On the upper terrace she walked the length of the magnificent herbaceous border. Its discreet information labels enabled her to converse adequately, if not fluently, with the gardening enthusiasts of her widening social circle. A signposted path through the shrubbery brought her out to the paddock. Here a tea bar and sta
lls selling plants and produce in aid of the Millenary Fund were attractively laid out. An ice cream cart to be manned by Belinda Plowman stood under a gay umbrella. At the sight of it Shirley Stanton frowned slightly. Would Belinda have that young man from Alchester in tow? Really, it would be most unfortunate if she got herself talked about with somebody of that sort. Reviewing potential alliances with the County circle, Shirley returned to the house.
Gerald Stanton was checking piles of small change, and looked up as she entered his study.
‘I’ve done the floats,’ he said.
‘Good,’ she replied. ‘Everything seems to be all right. We’d better have lunch. It’s all cold, I’m afraid.’
In the Plowman household lunch was already in progress.
‘Some more gooseberry fool, Adrian?’ Monica asked.
‘I’d love some, Mrs Plowman. It’s super,’ he told her passing up his plate.
As she ladled out a generous second helping, Monica reflected that the young man was at least clean and his hair reasonable for these days. All the same, he really shouldn’t come to lunch with comparative strangers in quite such unconventional clothes. She had already sensed unerringly that this affair of Belinda’s was different from any of its predecessors, and gave a little sigh. He wasn’t at all the sort of bridegroom she had always pictured for Belinda. If only she could talk to Mark about it, but he had been so worried and remote lately. It couldn’t be the Pottery: even Shirley was pleased with sales. So it must be this dreadful business about poor Blister. Surely the police would catch the murderer soon, and then it would all die down.
Surfacing with an effort, she suggested that it would save time if they had coffee at the table.
As Mark Plowman drove his party over to Edgehill Court half an hour later, Belinda’s spirits were more buoyant than for some time. After all, she told herself, nothing more had been heard of the Scotland Yard men for nearly a week. Moreover, she was young and in love, and it was high summer. On arrival she found her aunt’s guarded welcome to Adrian amusing.
‘Aunt Shirley’s a decent sort really,’ she assured him as they headed for the paddock. ‘It’s only that being left this place has gone to her head a bit. She’ll get over it in time.’
When he did not answer she looked round a little anxiously.
‘I say, you weren’t hipped by her, were you?’
‘Good Lord, no!’ Adrian hesitated a moment. ‘I say, there’s something I think I’d better tell you, just in case anything blows up.’
Belinda stopped dead, conscious of a painful constriction somewhere in the region of her heart, and of brightness having fallen from the air.
‘Pollard’s around,’ Adrian said. ‘The Hillman they had at Warhampton overtook me at the bottom of the High Street before lunch. It turned into the police station. There were four chaps on board.’
‘Four?’ she heard herself echo pointlessly.
‘Oh, there you are, Belinda.’ Emerging from the shrubbery path, Gerald Stanton held out a small canvas bag. ‘Afternoon, young man. Nice of you to come along and lend a hand. Here’s your float, Belinda: two quid. Why are you both looking so worried?’
Good-looking, tall and cheerful, he smiled down at them. Belinda suddenly craved his reassurance.
‘Those wretched Scotland Yard men have turned up again,’ she told him. ‘Adrian saw them drive into the police station when he came over to lunch. It … it would be so beastly if they came up here.’
There was a silence so brief as to be almost imperceptible.
‘I should think we can rule that one out,’ Gerald Stanton said. ‘We’ve already given them all the help we can. The poor devils have to slog on with the investigation, you know. Good Lord, people are arriving already. Time to take up action stations.’
At Corbury police station little more than a mile away, Superintendent Thomas’s room was uncomfortably congested by the presence, in addition to his own, of Pollard, Toye, Superintendent Hart of the Alchester CID and a Mr Engle, a legal expert frequently called in by the Yard. In spite of open windows, the air was stuffy and smoke laden, and the room crumby from a working lunch of sandwiches and beer. In mid-afternoon a constable entered in response to a bark from Superintendent Thomas. He saluted smartly and stood to attention.
‘Miss Mavis Fletcher, Mr Stanton’s secretary, is on holiday, sir. She’s down at Fairport, helping at St Christopher’s Holiday Home for Disabled Persons, and not expected home till next Saturday. I had it from her aunt, Mrs Walston of the new Pottery shop, who she lives with.’
Pollard briefly raised an eyebrow in Toye’s direction.
Superintendent Thomas, still looking stunned from Pollard’s recent disclosures, nodded abruptly, and the constable withdrew.
‘So what?’ Pollard said. ‘I suppose Inspector Toye and I had better go over and see if she can tell us anything about a phone call or a personal visit to the office by Lister. Care to come along for the run, Engle?’
Superintendent Hart tactfully suggested coming too, adding that Thomas would be glad to see the back of them all for a bit.
From a brisk start the Open Afternoon at Edgehill Court had built up to an outstanding success. A properly appreciative crowd of Corbury townspeople wandered about the garden, sat and contemplated, spent money freely on refreshments and at the stalls, and were chatted up graciously by Shirley Stanton, and more informally by her husband. The ice cream cart was besieged, and Belinda and Adrian were under such pressure that any apprehensions were temporarily submerged. Shortly before five o’clock their supplies ran out, and they thankfully closed down.
‘Collect up the cash, and we’ll hand it in and go and have a wash,’ Belinda said.
Adrian complied.
‘Change your mind about being engaged?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not till we know Daddy’s O.K. — or not. I can’t give my mind to it. Don’t be hipped with me.’
‘I’m not,’ he said.
They embraced briefly in the shrubbery, and returned to the garden to find the crowd rapidly thinning out. Shirley and Gerald Stanton were standing on the gravel sweep in front of the house, expediting departures with pleasant remarks and an occasional handshake. As Belinda and Adrian came up, Mrs Walston broke off from an ecstatic commentary.
‘And here’s Miss Plowman, too-oo,’ she trilled. ‘Such a lovely family party! And what a privilege for us all to have a peep at these wonderful grounds. As I was saying, if only Mavis could have been here, but the dear, good girl’s helping those poor disabled folk down at St Christopher’s Home this week. At least, I hope she’s being a good girl,’ Mrs Walston added, with an arch glance at Gerald Stanton. ‘Superintendent Thomas sent Constable Bly round just before I left home, to ask where she was. He thought she had some information he wanted.’
Once again, there was a fractional pause.
‘Yet another motor accident that they want witnesses of, I expect,’ Gerald Stanton said. ‘There seems no end to them. So good of you to come this afternoon, Mrs Walston. If you’ll excuse me, I must just have a word with one or two other people.’
Shirley Stanton gave her niece a quick meaning look.
‘I insist on sending you home in a taxi, Mrs Walston,’ she said. ‘It was splendid of you to toil out here on this hot afternoon. Belinda, dear, just run in and ring Bright’s, will you? Ask them to send one up at once.’
Smothering a grin at her aunt’s disengagement tactics, Belinda ran into the house and across the hall to the telephone room. Numbers frequently used were posted up, and she lifted the receiver preparatory to dialling. She realised immediately that the extension was in use, and in the same instant recognised her uncle’s voice.
‘St Christopher’s?’ she heard. ‘This is Corbury police station calling. We have an urgent message for one of your helpers, Miss Mavis Fletcher. Right? Her aunt, Mrs Walston has been knocked down by a car and is seriously hurt. Miss Fletcher should come to Corbury at once. We are sending a car for her. Will yo
u break the news to her, and see that she’s ready? Thank you.’
There was a click, and a silence. Belinda stood paralysed in body and mind. A door banged at the back of the house. Suddenly galvanised into action she dashed out, almost into Adrian’s arms.
‘I don’t understand what’s happening,’ she gasped. ‘Come in here.’
She dragged him into the deserted drawing room, and steadying herself with a supreme effort, repeated the conversation which she had just overheard.
‘Adrian, what can it mean?’ she implored.
‘I don’t know.’ He looked grim. ‘Whatever it means, it’s got to be stopped. We must ring this place.’
They crammed into the telephone room, and he searched the directory frantically, while Belinda looked up the Fairport code. He dialled, and after what seemed an eternity they heard the ringing tone. It stopped.
‘St Christopher’s, Fairport. Superintendent Pollard speaking,’ came a voice.
Adrian gave an audible gasp of astonishment.
‘Belinda Plowman and Beresford here, sir,’ he half-stuttered. ‘Somebody’s sent a hoax message to Miss Mavis Fletcher saying her aunt’s had an accident. She hasn’t. She’s here — Edgehill Court — and perfectly all right. A car may come to fetch her — Miss Fletcher, I mean.’
‘Thanks very much, Mr Beresford,’ Pollard replied. ‘Sensible of you both to ring promptly. As I happen to be here, having a chat with her, I’ll see she isn’t bothered. Goodbye.’
He rang off. They stood speechless, staring at each other. At the other end, Pollard smiled and resolved that the engaging pair should never know that he had just checked the call with Corbury police station before they rang.
Outside her office, the brisk grey-haired matron hovered anxiously.
‘It was a hoax, Miss Goodbody,’ he told her. ‘I’m so glad you called me out of the room before giving Miss Fletcher the message. Now I’ll just finish my talk with her, and then wait, if I may, as I think the hoaxer may turn up. If he does, just show him in to us, and keep her out of the way, will you?’
Buried in the Past Page 18
