by Roger Keevil
“Richard wrote whodunnits, inspector. Murder mysteries – detective novels – call it what you will. You might have come across them, although they’re probably not the sort of thing a professional like yourself would be caught dead reading, but they are still quite popular with the general public. ‘Murder For The Defence’ is one of his best-known. No?” Head-shaking from the two police officers. “He wrote them, they were initially printed on my husband’s company’s presses, and of course I published them through my publishing company. As it happens, there is a new one due out soon – ‘Bell, Book, and Murder’. In fact, Richard’s death may well have a positive effect on sales, if that doesn’t make me sound too heartless.”
“I wasn’t aware that you were a publisher, Mrs. Baverstock. And I have to say that I’m afraid I’d never heard Sir Richard’s name before I became involved in this investigation.”
“Oh, he didn’t write under his own name. I suspect that some of the circles he moved in might have looked down on his particular literary genre. No, he wrote under the name of Jolyon Booker – ‘Jolyon’ was one of his middle names, and I believe he took the ‘Booker’ from his sister’s married name. But of course, the books were merely a sideline. Richard’s first love was always racing and the horses he trained. That was the other link between us.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He trained my racehorse, ‘Last Edition’.” A cloud passed over Julia’s face. “That is, until recent events.”
Dave Copper snapped his fingers. “That’s where I knew the name from!” he blurted, causing the other two to look at him in surprise. “Sorry, sir,” he continued. “I did say I thought I knew Mrs. Baverstock’s name, and it’s just come to me. You were the owner of the horse I won some money on in the Five Thousand Guineas.”
“Congratulations, sergeant,” said Julia. “Evidently we both made something of a killing that day.” She gave a slightly wan smile. “An unfortunate choice of words, since he had to be put down just at the peak of his career. But sadly, things like that can happen in the horse-racing world.”
“I imagine you would have been rather upset,” said Constable. “Particularly as I gather from my sergeant here that ‘Last Edition’ was probably a very valuable animal.”
“As you say, inspector. We had plans to retire him from racing and send him to stud. But …” A rueful shrug. “Not everything works out as you intend.”
“Perhaps we should return to the events of yesterday,” said Constable. “And yesterday evening in particular.”
A meaningful throat-clearing came from Sergeant Copper at his side. “Although I have a note, sir, that Mrs. Baverstock was on the premises earlier in the day. Mr. Pelham did mention …”
“Indeed he did, sergeant. And thank you for the reminder. So, Mrs. Baverstock, can you tell us what occasioned these two visits in one day?”
“It’s perfectly simple, inspector,” said Julia calmly. “One led on from the other. I needed to see Richard because I wanted to talk to him about ‘Printer’s Devil’ – that’s another horse I’m looking to buy. The breeding’s good, but he’s untried.”
“So you were seeking Sir Richard’s advice? And also with a view to having him train your new acquisition?”
“Well, that would be the natural assumption, wouldn’t it, inspector? And we had a brief conversation, but Richard suggested that I might like to come to dinner so that we could discuss the matter in a more leisurely fashion. Of course, I accepted.”
“So you returned to Effingham Hall later. And arrived when …?”
Julia thought for a moment. “I got there about ten past eight, I suppose. Then I had a drink with Olivia and James in the drawing room.”
“Sir Richard wasn’t there at that point?”
“No. Olivia said something about him having gone to attend to a visitor in the library. So we just chatted about this and that.”
“You didn’t notice anything unusual about the atmosphere?”
“Not a thing, inspector. Although I have to say, I was rather preoccupied with thoughts of the horse.”
“And you remained there all together in the drawing room?” asked Constable artlessly.
“Oh no, inspector. Both Olivia and James left the room at various times. They both went upstairs, I think. But I was certainly there when the shot came. I knew what it was at once. The sound of a shotgun is quite unmistakeable, even through a couple of closed doors. So I went out to the hall straight away, and Pelham was just coming out of the library. He told us what had happened, and of course Olivia wanted to go in there, but Pelham said that it would probably be best if nobody else went into the room until the police arrived, and he went to telephone immediately while I took Olivia into the drawing room. And that’s where we stayed until the officers arrived.”
*
“I noticed the trap you laid for the lady, guv,” remarked Dave Copper as the detectives climbed back into the car.
“Yes,” replied Andy Constable. “Although in backing up what Lady Olivia and James said about who was where and when, she has very inconveniently, as far as she is concerned, left herself with nobody who can confirm her own whereabouts in the period running up to the murder. Which may or may not be significant. After all, Pelham said she was in the drawing room immediately after the shot, so I don’t see how she could have been in two places at once. Well, it’s all material for your steadily-increasing dossier.”
“I may need another notebook if it goes on like this, guv,” grinned Copper. “Off to the next one, is it?”
“It is. So get your phone out, and kindly resist the temptation to give the directions in an annoying electronic voice.”
“I could do Popeye, sir.” A growl from the inspector led to a brisk tapping of Copper’s phone screen. “Okay, guv. It’s turn right out of the drive …”
The Effingham establishment lay on one of the highest parts of the downs. An unostentatious gateway, flanked by a pair of modest signs featuring a horse’s profile intertwined with a stylised ‘E’, was the only indication of its existence, and beyond a cattle grid, a gravelled drive led the short distance towards a surprisingly domestic-looking bungalow just within the property, before continuing in the direction of a belt of trees which, Constable assumed, sheltered the main group of buildings. A solitary horse grazed calmly in a distant corner of one of the flanking fields. Outside the bungalow, a metallic grey Mercedes was parked.
“Doesn’t look much, guv,” commented Copper as the car turned in and parked alongside the Mercedes outside a front door simply labelled ‘Office’. “I got the impression that there was loads of money sloshing around horse-racing.”
“Let’s go and find out,” said Constable, and led the way through the door. “Hello,” he called. “Is there anyone here?”
The man who emerged from one of the rooms leading off the hall was short and heavily-built, a fact which the expertly-tailored suit was unable to disguise. A jowly face with small quick darting eyes was topped by a bald crown fringed with short grey hair. “Can I help?” The cultivated voice somehow did not seem to go with the visual image.
“I’m looking for Mr. Simon Worcester.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Detective Inspector Constable, sir, and this is Detective Sergeant Copper.” The officers presented their warrant cards.
“Ah. This business with Richard.”
“Yes, sir. We are investigating Sir Richard Effingham’s death, and we were hoping to ask you some questions.”
“Of course, inspector. You’d better come through.” He moved back into what was evidently his office, furnished in modern style with pale wood furniture and chrome-and-leather chairs of an unmistakeably Scandinavian origin. He settled himself at a desk strewn with papers, while the detectives took seats opposite. He reached for a glass on the desk. “Drink?”
“No thank you, sir. On duty, and all that.”
“Oh. Right. Well, I will, if you don’t mind.” Simon pulled open the to
p drawer of the desk and rummaged for a moment, before standing and producing a bottle of whisky from a drawer in a filing cabinet behind him. He splashed a measure into his glass. “What would you like to know?”
Constable smiled faintly. “Pretty much everything, sir, really. My colleague and I have been brought into the case in place of the original investigating officer, so we’re still compiling as much background as we can.” A glance towards Copper to ensure that the sergeant’s notebook was at the ready. “I believe I’m right in saying that you and Sir Richard worked together.”
“Yes. We were partners in the business.”
“And was this a long-standing arrangement? I mean, had you known Sir Richard for a long time?”
“Oh, absolutely. Forever. Well, since we were at Eddie’s together.”
“‘Eddie’s’, sir? How do you mean?”
“Sorry, inspector. Richard and I were both Old Edmundians. From St. Edmund’s College. Founded by Henry VII, you know. Or perhaps you don’t. The school was never quite as famous as its bigger rival down-river at Eton, but a very good establishment for all that. So yes, Richard and I first met at school, which must be fifty-odd years ago now.” Simon shook his head. “Lord. Where do the years go?”
“And you’ve remained in contact in one way or another ever since?”
“Not exactly, no. I went on up to university and then into the money business, whereas Richard had no need to. He had a ready-made career in his father’s business. So we lost touch for a while. But then when Richard’s father died and Richard took over, he made a few changes.” Simon smiled. “Old Sir Arthur was a fine old gentleman, but he was somewhat stuck in the nineteenth century as far as running a business was concerned. Richard was rather like him in some ways – there wasn’t a thing he didn’t know about training horses, but he could never get on with the ins and outs of administration. And he and I happened to run into each other at an O.E.‘s function – I think it may have been to celebrate the retirement of one of the masters who’d been there since god was a lad, or some such. It was twenty years or so ago, so I’m afraid the details are somewhat hazy, but the point was, we got chatting, and the upshot was that, as he couldn’t stand paperwork and I was a money man, he offered to take me into the business to handle all the admin and the books. And here I am.”
“A perfect example of the old boy network in practice, sir,” said Constable.
“Exactly, inspector.”
“Just as a matter of interest, Mr. Worcester, what happens to the business now? I’m presuming you and Sir Richard had some sort of formal arrangement …?”
“There was a partnership agreement, yes. I can’t remember the details exactly.”
“If my memory serves me right, I believe that there would normally be some sort of clause about the assets devolving on to the surviving partner in the event of the death of one of them, sir.” Constable smiled self-deprecatingly. “I’m afraid my contract law is rather rusty.”
“Yes … yes, I think there was something of the sort.”
“Which then brings us rather neatly to the present, Mr. Worcester, and the events of yesterday.”
Simon’s face took on a sad expression. “This is all terrible, inspector. Who on earth could have wanted to kill Richard?”
“That’s a question I was hoping to ask you, sir. Now, since you were at Sir Richard’s house yesterday …”
“But not at the time he was killed, inspector. I didn’t get there until afterwards, so I don’t know that I can tell you much about what happened. In fact, if I hadn’t phoned up, I wouldn’t have known. But I called, it seems just after it happened, and Pelham told me there had been a shooting and that Richard was dead. I couldn’t believe it. I got into my car and drove straight over – I don’t really know why – I must have had some idea of being able to offer to help in some way. And I got there just as the police were arriving.”
“So I understand, sir. But I also understand that you went to the house earlier in the day. I was wondering if that might have had any bearing on events.”
Simon furrowed his brow. “I can’t see how, inspector. I’d gone over because I’d needed to see Richard because there was something I had to sort out with him – oh, nothing particularly significant, inspector. Just some paperwork that I wanted a signature on. So we spoke, and then I came away not long afterwards.”
“And as far as you were aware, there was nothing in Sir Richard’s manner to lead you to suspect any problems?”
Simon gave a small wry laugh. “Obviously you’ve never worked with horses, inspector. There are always problems. We get through them.”
“I believe you had an unfortunate accident with one of your horses recently. Mrs. Baverstock’s ‘Last Edition’, wasn’t it? We’ve just come from speaking to her.”
There was an increase in the air of unease. “But why … I mean, what’s she been telling you?”
“Nothing specific, sir, other than that the horse had to be put down.”
“Yes, well, as you say, that was very sad. But as for Richard, no, as far as he and I were concerned, everything was perfectly normal.”
“And you say that you can think of no reason why anyone would wish to do Sir Richard harm? Nobody with any sort of grudge against him? No feelings running high?”
“Feelings always run high in the horse-racing world,” replied Simon. “It’s that kind of business. But as for what anyone else might have been feeling, I really can’t answer for that. You’ll have to ask other people.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir. We shall. We have quite a long list of people we’re planning on talking to.” Constable made to get to his feet. “By the way, sir, my colleague and I were faintly surprised when we arrived that there seemed a distinct lack of horses and facilities for an establishment of this kind. I was given to understand that the Effingham stables were quite prominent in the horse-racing world.”
Simon smiled. “We are, inspector. Please don’t be fooled by this little house. This used to be a smallholding with a couple of fields, but we had the chance to buy them up, so we could increase the grazing and put in a new access road. The old one’s up a very twisting lane – no good for anything other than a single horse-box. And I decided to use the bungalow as an office, to keep me away from all the hurly-burly of the stables. My flat’s in Westchester, but this gives me somewhere to stay if I happen to be working particularly late. Like I said, I’m just the paper-pusher. But all the main facilities are up over the other side of the hill.”
“Beyond the trees?”
“Yes. That’s where we have the stable yard and the manège and the therapy pool and so on. Andthe gallops go down into the valley and back.” Simon stood. “I could show you if you like.”
“I’m sure that’s not necessary, sir,” answered Constable. “Fascinating as it might be, but we have rather more pressing needs. So I think that will be all for now, and we’ll get in touch with you if there’s anything more we need. We’ll let you get back to your paperwork.” He extended his hand in farewell, and the two detectives made their way back out to the car.
Chapter 6
“Thoughts, sergeant?” invited Andy Constable as he settled behind the wheel.
“A couple of things, sir,” replied Dave Copper. “Something of a lack of straight answers to the questions regarding whether Sir Richard had any problems, either his own or with anybody else. And also on the matter of whether anybody else had a problem with Sir Richard that might give them a motive to kill him.”
“My thinking exactly,” said Constable. “I think there’s more scope for digging.” He switched on the car engine.
“You’ll be wanting directions for our next digging site then, guv.” Copper pulled his phone out of his pocket, gave a few taps to the screen, and perused the result. “Okay – according to Coppernav, we’re back out of here, turn left, and then straight on for about a mile. That’s just for starters.”
“Remind me. This will take us to …
?”
“Mrs. Wadsworth, sir. Sarah Wadsworth.”
Once back off the downs, the route led through a succession of tiny villages. Chocolate-box cottages with thatched roofs peeped shyly from behind luxuriant hedges, while substantial brick-built Georgian houses kept themselves to themselves, surrounded by high walls which allowed the merest glimpse of the property through intricately-wrought iron gates. At intervals, a yew-flanked church, modest in scale and featuring the flint-work characteristic of the area, stood in its own charmingly dishevelled graveyard, where the occasional bright splash of colour from freshly-laid flowers contrasted with the leisurely but relentless scramble of ivy over the tombs of long-departed parishioners. Eventually there appeared a roadside sign which welcomed visitors to Knaggs End and invited them to drive carefully through the village.
“It’s the right turn just before the pub, sir,” directed Copper. “Saddler’s Lane. And we want ‘Hilton House’ – they don’t seem to have house numbers round here.”
The inspector drove the car on to the drive of a detached three-storey Edwardian house which exuded an air of comfortable prosperity. An immaculate front lawn was fringed by colourful flower beds, while an impressive willow tree drooped over the entrance to the drive. In front of the garage at the side of the house stood a small black sports car, its top down, its long bonnet hinting that power was not necessarily linked to size.
“Somebody else who’s worth a pretty penny, guv,” remarked Copper, taking in the scene.
“You’d probably be hard pressed to find many people round here who aren’t,” replied Constable. “It’s that kind of area. So, let’s see if we can discover what sort of woman the slightly mysterious Mrs. Wadsworth turns out to be.” He climbed the steps to the front door and rang the bell.
“Yes, can I help?”
The detectives turned in surprise at the voice from behind them, as a woman appeared from around the side of the house. She looked to be in her late thirties, with long blonde hair casually tied back in a ponytail. She wore a light-coloured check shirt topped by a light waistcoat, jodhpurs, black leather riding boots with tan tops, while a riding hat swung by its chinstrap from one hand, the other carrying a riding crop. Her face was a classic oval, almost devoid of make-up save for a touch of lipstick, and a pair of enormous grey eyes gazed at her visitors enquiringly from beneath perfectly arched eyebrows. The accent was cut-glass.
