by Roger Keevil
Susan Robson-Bilkes rose from behind an impressive partners’ desk as the detectives entered her office. Bookcases, glass-fronted and filled with leather-bound volumes, many looking to be of a considerable vintage, occupied the wall behind her. Portraits of solemn and sober-suited gentlemen in Georgian costume and Victorian frock coats hung above the stately marble fireplace and adorned the other walls. A mahogany sofa table held a silver tray bearing several gleaming decanters and their accompanying cut-crystal glasses. A chesterfield in dark brown leather lounged beneath the bay sash windows, while matching armchairs were arranged in front of the desk. The general effect was very much that of an Edwardian gentleman’s library.
“Good afternoon, inspector.” The voice was low-pitched. Susan Robson-Bilkes was tall and thin, with jet-black hair cut in a jaw-length bob which did nothing to soften the angular planes of her face. Her eyes, beneath sharply delineated brows, were dark, and held no warmth. Her nose was long and almost seemed to come to a point. Her mouth was a thin scarlet slash. She wore a severe black business suit, almost unrelieved except for the merest touch of white at the throat. “I’ve been told you wish to speak to me.” The words held no acknowledgement of the involvement, or even the presence, of Dave Copper.
The inspector smiled blandly. “Indeed I do, Miss Robson-Bilkes. On the matter of the late Sir Richard Effingham, as I’m sure you know. I wonder, might we sit down?” He looked expectantly at the armchairs positioned before the desk and, in response to a wintery nod, took a seat. As the solicitor resumed her place behind her desk, Copper likewise seated himself and produced his notebook, preparing to record any relevant information.
Susan finally condescended to notice the junior officer and frowned disapprovingly. “I don’t think I can allow your sergeant to make notes, inspector. You may be asking questions which might lead to privileged information emerging.” The look on her face clearly indicated doubts.
“No matter, Miss Robson-Bilkes.” Constable waved to Copper to put away his notebook. “I’m sure we can manage very well without. And in any case, Sergeant Copper has an excellent memory.” Another smile, this one more wolfish in nature.
“So, how can I help you?”
“Just to confirm a few basic facts, to begin with. You were Sir Richard’s solicitor?”
“I was. And, to be strictly accurate, still am.”
“As the executor of his will?”
A blink of surprise. “As it happens, yes. Although I’m not at all sure how you would have come by that particular piece of information.”
“Perhaps we’ll come on to that a little later. But you have, I understand, been involved in Sir Richard’s affairs for many years.”
“The legal affairs?” A flare of the nostrils, whose meaning Constable did not immediately understand. “Those, yes. In fact, this firm has been handling the family’s legal business since Sir Richard’s ancestor built the Hall.”
“Although I think there may have been something of a … shall we say, a hiccup in the relationship some little while ago?”
A small gleam of alarm showed in Susan’s eyes. “I really don’t know what you mean, inspector.”
“Oh, I think perhaps you do, Miss Robson-Bilkes,” contradicted Constable. “We both know that hearsay will get us nowhere in a legal context, but my colleague and I have been told certain things which I have no cause to doubt. Something to do with the contents of one of Sir Richard’s books, I believe.”
“I really …”
“‘Murder For The Defence’ was the title, I think,” pressed on Constable. He waited.
Susan capitulated. “Yes, inspector,” she said shortly. “There was a … misunderstanding.”
“You took exception to one of the characters, I’m told. A lady lawyer.”
“It was a storm in a teacup.” Susan essayed a light laugh which did not ring true. “There were things in the book which could quite easily have been misinterpreted. Once these were pointed out, the whole matter was swiftly resolved.”
“Without recourse to the law.”
“As you say, inspector.” Susan did not seem disposed to be any more forthcoming.
“And to your entire satisfaction?” persisted the inspector.
The solicitor’s hackles began to rise. “I fail to see what you are attempting to imply, Mr. Constable,” she said frostily. “There was a disagreement between Sir Richard and myself on a certain topic. The disagreement ended, and as you appear to be aware, I have continued to act for him with regard to legal matters, so I assume you will deduce that the resolution was complete and amicable.”
“Sir Richard’s skills of persuasion certainly seem to have been finely polished,” commented Constable, and hurried on before Susan could raise any objection to the remark. “Now, you confirm that you continued to act for Sir Richard. This would be true in regard to his will, of course?”
“This is the second time you have referred to Sir Richard’s will, inspector. And I’m sure I do not need to remind you that you are treading perilously close to matters of client confidentiality.”
“Under normal circumstances, naturally,” agreed Constable. “But I’m sure I do not need to remind you, Miss Robson-Bilkes, that these circumstances are very far from normal. I am investigating the murder of your client. And in such circumstances, something like a will can be very relevant where matters of inheritance are concerned. There are potential motives to be looked into. And in this instance, I have a particular reason for raising the matter. You see, we have in our possession a copy of Sir Richard’s will.”
“What?” Susan was clearly startled. “Where … I mean, how …?”
“As to where, I can simply say that it was at the crime scene. How is still a matter of some speculation. But what would be helpful to know, Miss Robson-Bilkes, is whether this is the latest will which Sir Richard made, and if so, when he made it.”
“But if you have the will,” said Susan slowly, “then surely you don’t need me to give you that information.”
“Sadly, the document in our possession is incomplete.” Constable declined to give any further details. “But I hope you may be able to give us some guidance.” Susan’s face took on an expression of defiance. “Merely as a professional courtesy, naturally. Of course. I could roust out a magistrate and go through the rigmarole of getting authority to view the will, but I would hate to put you to all the inconvenience. And it goes without saying that I wouldn’t expect you to reveal anything of a confidential nature.”
Susan sighed. “Oh, very well,” she said reluctantly. “I certainly shan’t tell you any of the detailed provisions of the will …”
“Of some of which, we are already aware.”
“If you say so, inspector. Provided that the one you have is the most recent, of course,” she retorted waspishly. “And that was made some two weeks ago, here in this office. I recall the occasion well. And it was witnessed by my receptionist and one of the filing clerks from records. That is all I am prepared to reveal until the will is read formally.”
“Which is likely to be when?”
“Under normal circumstances, immediately following Sir Richard’s funeral.”
“Then we may not have to wait too long. There is an inquest being held tomorrow …”
“Tomorrow?”
“Surprisingly soon, wouldn’t you say? I believe there have been pressures, but I won’t bore you with those. So if all goes well, it may be possible to arrange the funeral in the near future. At which time, we shall all become much better informed.”
Chapter 11
“Charming helpful lady, isn’t she, guv?” remarked Dave Copper as the detectives returned to their car. “Eager to tell us all she knows in the interests of the pursuit of justice.”
“Do I detect the merest hint that you may be becoming jaded, sergeant?” responded Andy Constable with a smile.
“Not even a touch, sir. Mind you, I’ll tell you one thing. I would love it if she were one of our suspe
cts. I reckon some awkward questions in the interview room would wipe some of that sneer off her face.”
“Don’t let it get personal, David,” warned Constable. “Just because the lady treated you like some kind of pond life. There are some of us who appreciate your sterling qualities.” A pause, and a quiet chuckle. “Just don’t ask me to enumerate them.”
“Well, thanks for that, guv,” grinned Copper. “I think. Although, if you think about it, we could probably make a decent case for her having some kind of motive. There’s all this kerfuffle over the book. And, don’t you remember, when we were talking to Ed Short, I think he dropped some kind of hint that Miss Robson-Bilkes might have fancied her chances of joining Sir Richard’s stable of fillies. I didn’t think anything of it at the time he said it, and having clapped eyes on her, I can’t see it myself, but there’s no accounting for taste. But if he fobbed her off with a car and a share in a horse, tasty though those might be, she could still have felt miffed. She might have wanted to bump him off out of spite – you know, revenge being a dish best eaten cold, and all that.”
Constable laughed. “Another one of your flights of fancy, sergeant. Which I very much enjoy, but I can’t see that it will go anywhere. For one thing, there is nothing to place her anywhere near the house at the time of Sir Richard’s death, and considering the number of people who were to-ing and fro-ing that evening, I’m sure she’d have been noticed. No, I’m afraid you will have to let that one go.” He fumbled in his pocket for his keys as the two reached the car.
“So, what next then, guv?” asked Copper, climbing in.
“As we’re in this neck of the woods, I think we’d best see if we can catch the housekeeper up at the Hall. She’s about the only material witness we haven’t yet spoken to, and there are one or two things raised by SOCO and the doctor that I’d rather like to clarify.” Constable let in the clutch and pulled out of the Four Horseshoes car park on to the main road.
*
“I’m afraid Mrs. Carruthers is not here this afternoon, sir,” said Pelham as he stood in the front doorway. “She always uses one of her half-days off to take the bus and go and see her sister in Westchester. May I be of help to you?”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Pelham,” said Constable. “I wanted to ask her about the events of the evening of Sir Richard’s death as she saw them, and you’ve already been more than helpful on that front.”
“She will most probably be back at around nine o’clock this evening, sir,” suggested Pelham.
“I think perhaps tomorrow might be more convenient,” replied Constable, his mind on a number of recent memos from the top brass on the subject of excessive payments for officers’ overtime. “We’ll speak to her then.”
“I shall advise her to expect you, sir,” said Pelham gravely.
As the detectives descended the steps from the front door, the squeak of a wheelbarrow caught their ear, and Diggory emerged around the corner of the house from the west terrace.
A thought struck the inspector. “Ah, Mr. Diggory,” he cried. “Just the man.”
The gardener lowered the handles of his barrow and straightened with a slight groan. “Oh, it’s you, inspector,” he said. “What is it you’re after? ‘Cos if it’s about that gun, I don’t know no more than I’ve already told you …”
“Nothing to do with that, Mr. Diggory,” said Constable. “I think we’ve already made our thoughts clear on that subject. No, this is something else that has emerged since we had our last conversation.”
“Oh, what’s that, then?” asked Diggory warily.
“Our colleagues on the forensic team have shown us a hip flask which was apparently found in one of the borders outside the house. I wonder if you can show us where it was.”
“Oh, that. That’s just round here.” Diggory led the officers around the side of the house. “It was here, in this border.”
“Is that the library though there?” asked Copper, peering in through the window.
“It is, sergeant. Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered. Because I think I made a note that you told us that you saw Lady Effingham doing something in one of these borders on the day of Sir Richard’s death. Would that have been this border?”
“That’s right. And before you ask, it couldn’t have been her who left those ruddy great footprints in there. She’s got a bit more respect for my work than that. Course, I’ve put it all to rights now.” Diggory indicated a freshly-trowelled area. “But if it wasn’t the police, tramping all over the place in their great size 11s, I’d like to know who it was.”
“And you’ve seen the flask,” resumed Constable. “You’re certain that it could not have belonged to her ladyship? After all, it does seem that it was engraved with her initials.”
“That don’t mean nothing,” scoffed Diggory. “Plenty of people with them initials about. And anyway, it’s no sort of a thing for a lady to have.”
“You may be right.” Constable elected to move on. “One other thing, Mr. Diggory. Tell me, do you keep rat poison?”
“Rat poison?” responded the gardener in surprise. “What would I want with rat poison? Weed killer, yes, I got some of that, and slug bait, ‘cos some of those little blighters have got a terrible taste for succulents, not to mention my marrows. But I don’t get any bother from rats.”
“So there wouldn’t be likely to be any rat poison on the premises?” The inspector sounded disappointed.
“Ah. No. I didn’t say that.”
“Then what did you say?” asked Constable, exasperated.
“You asked me if I keep it, and I don’t. I believe there is some, but it ain’t nothing to do with me. It’s kept in the feed store, to keep the rats away from Punter’s oats. They soaks a handful of oats in it, see, and puts them down in some out-of-the-way corner for the rats to eat.”
“Which is exactly what you said, guv, when Sergeant Singleton told us what she’d found. Great – now we’ve got another suspect – Lady Olivia’s horse!”
“Hack.”
“Come again?” was Copper’s baffled reaction.
“Apparently that’s what they call a horse that’s kept for ordinary everyday riding,” explained Constable. “I’ve been doing some reading up.”
“So if Punter was responsible for the murder, you could say …” spluttered Copper in mirth. “… you could say Sir Richard had been hacked to death!”
“Pay no attention, Mr. Diggory,” said Constable severely. “Just another of my sergeant’s frequent misplaced attempts at humour. So, could you show us where this rat poison is kept?”
“Round here in the stable yard, inspector.” Diggory led the way through a gate at the corner of the house and into the rear yard, opened the door of a storeroom next to the stable, and pointed to a bottle on a shelf full of dusty bottles above the bin of oats, alongside a rack of hay. Constable observed a small circular area on the shelf, noticeably clear of dust. Punter, alerted by the sounds coming from the adjacent store, put his head out inquisitively from his stable, evidently in the hope of an extra unscheduled meal.
“And this door is not kept locked, I suppose,” sighed Constable.
“No reason why it should be, is there?” said the gardener.
The inspector measured the distance to the door to the kitchen corridor with his eye. “And only a few yards from the house. Which means that anyone might have access.”
“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Carruthers about that,” said Diggory. “She’d know more about the comings and goings through the kitchen than I would.”
“And we shall do that very thing. Tomorrow. Come along, Copper. I think we’re done here.” Constable started back in the direction of the car. “As I believe someone once said, tomorrow is another day.”
“I think it was you, sir,” grinned Copper. “You want to watch out. They say repeating yourself is one of the first signs of madness.”
“And for that, sergeant,” riposted Constable, tossing across the keys to his
junior colleague, “you can drive back to the station while I have a well-deserved snooze.”
*
“Morning, guv.”
Andy Constable looked up from the computer screen in front of him. “You’re exceptionally chipper this morning, sergeant.”
“Had a good night last night, sir,” replied Dave Copper. “I ran into Pete and Matt as I was going off work. They asked me what I was working on, and I told them about the case, and they accidentally reminded me that I’d promised to stand them a meal on the strength of my winnings on race day. So we went out and had a couple of lagers and some very fine chicken piri-piri.”
“As long as the chilli hasn’t killed off too many of your brain cells,” remarked Constable. “I suppose there is always an outside chance that we may need to call on some of them this morning.”
“So what’s afoot then, guv?”
Constable turned back to the computer screen. “I was just checking what time the inquest on Sir Richard is scheduled to take place.”
“Did you want to go then, sir?”
“I had it in mind to. Not, I suppose, that it is likely to tell us a great deal that we don’t know already, given that we’ve spoken to Dr. Livermore and SOCO. But you never know, the coroner might want to ask the odd question, so it would do no harm to be on the spot, just in case.”
“Where are they holding it?”
“One of the Westchester Magistrates Courts. Which is very convenient for going on to Effingham Hall and our proposed conversation with Mrs. Carruthers.”
“Better saddle up and be on our way then, sir.”
Constable sighed as he got to his feet. “You will run out of these remarks at some point, I hope, sergeant?”
“I wouldn’t count on it, sir,” grinned Copper. “And I haven’t even got to the one about Mr. Diggory not locking the stable door …”
*
The proceedings at the virtually deserted inquest could scarcely have been briefer. Formal evidence of identification was given in just a few words, and a brief recitation was made of the injuries to the body. The conclusion went through on the nod.
