by Roger Keevil
“Would you be Mrs. Sarah Wadsworth?”
“Yes. What’s this about? I was just on my way out.”
“I’m sorry if this is a bad time, Mrs. Wadsworth, but I’m afraid we shall have to delay you,” replied the inspector. He produced his warrant card and introduced himself. “May I take it you’ve heard about Sir Richard Effingham?”
“That he’s dead? Yes, there was something on the radio this morning.”
“And as we understand you were among his friends, we’d like to ask you some questions if we may.”
“You’d better follow me, inspector,” said Sarah. “Come round the back. Shamrock will have to wait.”
“Do I take it that Shamrock is the name of your horse?” asked Constable, as Sarah casually discarded her riding equipment and sat in one of the wicker armchairs placed around a glass-topped table on the paved terrace overlooking the garden at the rear of the house, gesturing to the police officers to do likewise.
“It is,” said Sarah. “I like to ride every morning whenever I can. And today was too good to miss.” She looked expectantly at Constable and waited.
“You visited Sir Richard yesterday shortly before his death,” began the inspector without preamble. “When his body was discovered, you had apparently left the house. I was hoping you could fill in some details for me.”
“There’s nothing sinister, inspector, if that’s what you’re implying. I wished to speak to Richard, so I went to the house and did so. After we spoke, I left. It was a private matter.”
Constable gave a wintery smile. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Wadsworth, that in a case of murder, very few things can be allowed to remain a private matter. Now, let me see if I can help you out by telling you what we already know. We’ve had a conversation with Mr. Pelham, Sir Richard’s butler, who told us that you had telephoned Sir Richard earlier in the evening. He also told us at what time he admitted you to the house. But he was somewhat reticent on the subject of your visit. However, what he did let fall was the fact that you, as a rule, did not call at the house when Sir Richard’s wife was on the premises. So, you were perhaps a friend of Sir Richard’s rather than a friend of the family?”
“Yes.” Sarah did not seem disposed to be any more forthcoming.
“Had you known him long?”
“About fifteen years.”
“There was, I think, some considerable difference in your ages,” said the inspector carefully.
“I’m not at all sure what you’re implying by that,” responded Sarah in a slightly frosty tone. “Some men carry their years lightly. Richard could hold his own with men twenty years younger than himself. Some men of that age think they can keep up, but they are just deluded. I mean, Simon, for god’s sake!” A laugh of derision.
Constable was alerted. “You mean Simon Worcester? Sorry, are you telling us that Mr. Worcester and you …?”
“Simon? Oh god, no. He might have wanted to, but … really, inspector, no.”
“But in Sir Richard’s case, yes? You were very happy in your friendship with him?”
“I suppose you might say so,” said Sarah carefully.
“And how would you characterise this friendship?” persisted Constable. “Good friends? Extremely good friends? Intimate friends?”
Sarah gave a sigh of exasperation. “Yes, inspector, if you wish to put it that way, we were very close friends.”
“To be blunt, you were his mistress?”
Sarah burst out into rather surprising laughter. “What a very bourgeois question! All right, inspector, if that’s the word you like to use, you are correct. I was his mistress, or, at least, I was until recently.”
“Until yesterday, are you saying? Was this in fact the reason for your visit to him? I think, Mrs. Wadsworth, that it would probably save us all a great deal of time if you would tell us the whole story.”
Sarah sighed again. “Very well, inspector.” She pulled a slim gold case from a waistcoat inside pocket, extracted a cigarette and, after fruitlessly patting her other pockets, grimaced and replaced the cigarette in the case. “I’ve been meaning to give up anyway.” She took a deep breath and seemed to be marshalling her thoughts. “I went to see Richard yesterday because I didn’t like the way he had been treating me lately.”
“In any particular respect?”
“Offhand attitudes – changes of plan when we’d arranged to meet – all the classic tell-tales that make you think there’s something going wrong with a relationship.”
“But I would have thought,” began Constable tentatively, “that in a situation such as yours …”
“What, you mean that the mistress has to put up with what she’s given?” interrupted Sarah bitterly.
“Not exactly what I was going to say …” said the inspector.
“But it wasn’t just that,” continued Sarah forcefully, the bit now firmly between her teeth. “I’d heard whispers that he was involved with someone else. That’s one of the most wonderful things about living in the country, inspector – you’ve always got friends who are only too pleased to bring you up to date with all the local news. Charming friends that you meet at parties who smile to your face and then cheerfully plunge the knife in when your back is turned. Oh, they never say anything specific, you know. Just those little venomous hints – ‘Do you know, I never realised that Richard was friends with so-and-so’ and ‘Wasn’t it kind of Richard to give so-and-so that private tour of the stables? He’s never done that for me’. But that was just Richard. He was always the same. He couldn’t help enjoying the company of women. But it’s never been serious before.”
“And this time?”
“Apparently so.”
“Were you aware of who this person was?”
“No. Sadly, the dear friends never passed on that particular piece of information. But I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it weren’t one of those horse-faced women from the polo club. He’d never been that interested in polo before, but just lately he’d been spending more time going to see the matches at Buldray Park.”
“And not in your company?”
“No. Polo has never amused me, inspector. The men may be attractive, but some of the women are vile.”
“So you say you went to see Sir Richard yesterday to have it out with him?”
“Yes. I told him I didn’t want anything more to do with him, and then I walked out.”
“And drove home?”
“No, inspector. I hadn’t driven. I’d walked up. There’s a footpath just along the lane which leads up through the park to the house. So I walked home, and just as well, because it gave me a chance to cool off.”
“Did you see anyone else during your walk? Anyone who might be able to verify your movements?”
“Not a soul, inspector. The back lanes of Knaggs End aren’t exactly lively at that hour.”
“And what did you do when you got home?”
Sarah’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Had a very large gin and pondered on the meaning of life.”
“Were you alone in the house?”
“Yes.”
“What I mean is, do you live here alone? What about Mr. Wadsworth?”
“Stuart? My husband,” coolly explained Sarah, “lives here at weekends. During the week, he lives in the flat in St. Katherine’s Dock in London. He works in the City. In insurance.”
“And … how can I put this …?”
“Let me save you the trouble, inspector. You want to know how much of all this my husband knew. We have a very understanding marriage. He has his life in London during the week, and I have my life here. At the weekends, we live here together. Very happily.”
Constable blinked slightly. “I’m pleased to hear that, Mrs. Wadsworth.”
“So let me also save you the trouble of considering whether a jealous husband might have taken it into his head to do away with the ‘other man’. The idea is ridiculous. Stuart and I have a perfectly amicable arrangement which some people might find bizarre, but wh
ich suits us very well. You may not approve, inspector, but that’s the way it is. If you lived in the country, you might not find it quite as shocking as you apparently do.”
“It really isn’t up to me to make moral judgements, Mrs. Wadsworth, …”
“And furthermore, inspector,” sailed on Sarah, “Stuart could not possibly have been responsible for Richard’s death, since he was out dining with a business associate last evening. He telephoned me from the restaurant bar in Chelsea before they went in to eat.”
“Are you positive that that was where he was?”
Sarah appeared irritated. “Of course I am. And before you ask, he put his client on the phone for a moment, because it was a Japanese businessman who had met me once at a function and who wanted to pay his respects. So unless you are proposing to advance the theory of some sort of international conspiracy, I really think you are backing the wrong horse.”
“And this telephone call came when?” enquired Constable mildly.
“About eight-thirty. Just after I’d got back.”
The inspector reflected for a moment. “Yes, well, that all seems to dovetail very neatly, Mrs. Wadsworth.” He got to his feet. “So we’ll keep you from your ride no longer. But I dare say if there’s anything further we need to ask you, we shall be able to find you.”
Sarah looked amused. “Well, I can assure you, Mr. Constable, that I’ve no intention of fleeing the country, if that was what was in your mind. Happy?”
“Perfectly, Mrs. Wadsworth. Thank you for your time. Come along, sergeant – let’s leave the lady to it.” With a nod, he led the way back out to the car and, without a further word, reversed out of the drive. After only a few yards, he pulled in to the side of the road, switched off the engine, and took a deep breath.
“Guv, …” hesitated Dave Copper.
“Sergeant?”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“Go on.”
Copper glanced at his watch. “I reckon a lack of nourishment is beginning to take its toll. And being the time it is, and being as there’s a pub on the corner, what say we recharge the batteries with some lunch on the hoof? There’s not much wrong that a pint and a ploughman’s can’t put right. And we’ve got to stay in the village anyway, because that’s where our next interview is. What do you think?”
Constable laughed grudgingly. “You know me too well, sergeant. I’ve been patronised by experts, but that woman takes the biscuit. And since policemen shall not live by detecting alone, I suppose we ought to go and have some bread to redress the balance. All right, maybe something a bit tastier. Although that pint might have to be reduced to a half, or there could be repercussions. I don’t need to face questions about detectives conducting investigations with alcohol on their breath. Let’s go and see what this pub has to offer.” He restarted the car and let in the clutch.
*
The lounge bar of the Four Horseshoes was characterised by a huge inglenook fireplace filled with an artistic arrangement of logs and conifer branches, a wealth of dark oak beams, and a profusion of leather-mounted horse brasses, many of them, in Andy Constable’s estimation, quite possibly genuine. A chalked blackboard listed the menu on offer for the day. Food ordered, the detectives settled themselves with their drinks at a table overlooking the High Street.
“She was a bit much, guv, wasn’t she? Mrs. Wadsworth?”
“County type,” returned Constable. “Some of them have a habit of regarding the rest of humanity as a rather lesser form of life.”
“Isn’t this all the sort of thing that Jilly Cooper writes about, sir?” remarked Dave Copper with a grin. “I never expected to find myself in one of her books. Not that I’ve ever read any of them,” he added hastily. “I’m not really much of a one for chick-lit. But as for Mrs. Wadsworth, she’s not quite as much of a mystery as we thought. It’s all a bit clichéd, if you think about it. Older man in the big house, and posh bird on the side in the village.”
“Yes, well, we’ll avoid the clichés if we can, sergeant,” said Constable. “We probably already have more than enough of those in this case as it is.”
“But she certainly did have a motive, didn’t she? It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a stable relationship. I mean, if she was steamed up about the way Sir Richard was treating her, carrying on with some other woman. Hell hath no fury, and all that. ”
“Ah, but according to the way she tells it, she’d already taken care of the problem by deciding to call the whole thing off. So why go that step further and kill him? Unless there’s some other factor we don’t know about.”
“I’ll tell you one thing that struck me, though, guv,” said Copper. “She seemed quite eager, in a subtle sort of way, to provide an alibi for herself, and for that husband of hers. And without being asked, too. Do we ask ourselves why?”
“Maybe we do, sergeant,” agreed Constable. “And there’s another thing. You may not have noticed. Everybody else we’ve spoken to was on the scene of the murder at the time or shortly afterwards, so they know what happened. Well, what we think happened. I’m not jumping to too many conclusions until I hear what SOCO and the doc have to say. But Mrs. Wadsworth wasn’t on the scene. And as far as I’m aware, even though there might have been a report of the death on the news, it could only have been sketchy at best. No cause of death would have been mentioned. So I’m wondering how come it didn’t occur to the lady to ask how Sir Richard died.”
“Good point, sir. But I’ll tell you another thing I did pick up on, if I read it right. It looks as if the slightly oily Mr. Worcester was carrying a torch for Mrs. Wadsworth.”
“Yes, he was somewhat oleaginous, sergeant, wasn’t he?” agreed Constable. “Damp handshake, too. I never trust a man with sweaty palms. Pure prejudice, of course. It means nothing. If you were carrying that much excess weight, you’d sweat. But you’re right. If what she seemed to be saying was true, that needn’t have stopped him fancying her. Although I much prefer your expression. ‘Carrying a torch’ sounds a great deal more tasteful.”
“So,” continued Copper, developing his thought, “might that have given him some sort of motive to do away with Sir Richard? You know, get his rival out of the way, and then step in and comfort the grieving …”
“Mistress?” smiled Constable. “It’s all a mite tenuous. From the way she was talking, I don’t think he would have been in with much of a chance. Plus there’s the fact that, as it turns out, he didn’t need to take any such drastic action. Mrs. Wadsworth had very neatly removed that particular obstacle in his way by finishing with Sir Richard on that very evening.”
“Ah, but Mr. Worcester didn’t know that, did he, guv?” countered Copper. “Their paths never crossed. He was there at the house in the afternoon, but he didn’t come back until after Sir Richard was dead, by which time it seems as if Mrs. Wadsworth was long gone.”
“Hmmm.” Constable did not look convinced. “I’m inclined to think that crimes of passion tend to be more of a female province. However, plenty of time to go into these matters later. In the meantime, it looks as if our lunch is heading this way.”
The beef cobbler was excellent. As the detectives finished their coffee afterwards, Dave Copper sat gazing out of the window at the High Street.
“There’s more to this place than I expected, guv,” he remarked. “Most of those villages we passed through were just a few houses, a church, and a little shop if you were lucky. This seems all a bit more substantial. Tea-room, knick-knack shop, ‘Dexter Hall’s Florists’, Supermarket Express – hey, they’ve even got a betting shop. Look over there – ‘Short Odds’, it’s called.”
“Well then,” said Constable, “it’s evidently a thriving community. And as for the bookie’s, I don’t think you ought to be surprised. I would have thought that any enterprising bookmaker would seize the chance to cash in on the local interest in the Effingham stables in order to make a bob or two. Anyway, if you can tear your mind away from the prospect of repeating your st
roke of good fortune at Goodwell, we’ll get back to business and go and see the next one on your list. Which would be …?”
Copper produced his notebook. “Baverstock …” he murmured in an undertone, leafing through the pages, “… Worcester … Wadsworth … Elliott! Owen Elliott, sir.”
“The jockey? The one who rode your ill-fated winner?”
“Yes, guv. And Owen Elliott was the other one who turned up at the house just after the shooting.”
“For reasons we have yet to discover. Well, let us go and see him. What’s the address?”
“It’s 18b, High Street, sir. Looks as if it’s a flat … ha!” Copper guffawed.
“And what is so amusing, sergeant?”
“Just a funny coincidence, sir. It’s theflat above the bookie’s. There’s a thing!”
“I never trust coincidences,” remarked Constable drily. “And especially not in a murder case. I like to drag my facts out, kicking and screaming, instead of having them presented to me on a plate. It makes me nervous. Well, let’s go and see if this Mr. Elliott is at home, and what he’s got to say for himself.”
Chapter 7
The young man who answered the rather shabby front door to one side of the entrance to the bookmaker’s premises looked haggard. Less than medium height, slim, and in his late twenties, with floppy dark hair and blue eyes with dark circles under them, he regarded the detectives apprehensively.
“Mr. Owen Elliott?”
“Who wants to know?” The voice, low but clear, held a touch of the local burr.
Andy Constable produced his credentials. “I’m Detective Inspector Constable, sir, and this is Detective Sergeant Copper.”
