The Affacombe Affair

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  Dart looked up sharply.

  ‘The devil he is,’ he exclaimed, uncomfortably aware of not having known that Barbara Winship had a daughter, and proceeded to give Metcalfe a summary of his recent visit to Crossways and subsequent reflections.

  Metcalfe listened with keen interest as they drove past the main front door of the Priory and parked outside the West Wing.

  ‘It sounds as though you’ve got something there, sir,’ he said tactfully. ‘I mean, if there’s a lot of lolly in it, and Roach knew the girl was a bastard she’d have Winship on toast.’

  ‘Hell of a job to prove it now, if she was. However, it’s a lead of a sort. We’d better get hold of Earwaker, and try to collect something you can call evidence.’

  ‘I forgot to mention that his wife’s back, sir. Mrs Strode went over to Highcastle last night and fetched her home.’

  ‘Mrs Strode? That blasted woman keeps cropping up at every turn. She wants watching.’

  ‘Interested party all right,’ said Metcalfe thoughtfully.

  ‘Interested to get Winship into the clear all right. Quite a lot hangs on the time they met on Saturday afternoon, for instance. Five minutes later would make a big difference.’

  ‘Strode got to the Vicarage at the time she said. I’ve checked with the Vicar and his missis.’

  Dart gave a snort compounded of irritation and frustration and extracted himself from the car.

  The Priory School book-room which John Ainsworth had assigned to the detectives as an office was inconveniently small for three men, two of whom were over six feet. It smelt overpoweringly of old books, and after the arrival of Fred Earwaker of earth and sweat as well. Dart managed to force up the window over the small table at which they were sitting.

  ‘That’s a bit better,’ he said. ‘Now then, Earwaker, we want to ask you a few questions connected with the murder of Sister Roach last Saturday. If you wish you’re entitled to have a solicitor present, and we can wait till you’ve got hold of one.’

  ‘I don’t want no solicitor,’ replied Fred Earwaker, wiping his brow with the back of an enormous hand. ‘You’m after what I wur doin’ all afternoon, I takes it? Wal, I wur in me ’ouse watchin’ the telly, an’ no man livin’ can prove I wurn’t, seein’ I wur.’

  ‘It would be useful if you could bring forward a witness, you know. It’s a long time for a man to stick at home on his own.’

  Fred Earwaker eyed Dart with shrewd complacency.

  ‘Try ter find summun ’oo seed me out an’ about, then. I don’t ’ave ter prove me innercence. The lor ’olds a man innercent till ’e’s proved guilty.’

  ‘We’re not trying to prove anyone guilty,’ said Dart patiently, reflecting that the inhabitants of Affacombe seemed to have an unusual grasp of their legal rights. ‘The job of the police who are enquiring into a crime is to collect facts, and we’re asking you to help us. What time did you have your dinner on Saturday? Let’s start from there...’

  It emerged that Fred had worked on the pitch on Saturday morning, in preparation for the match. He had knocked off at twelve, had a quick pint at the Arms, and gone home and fried up for his dinner. Then he’d settled down for an afternoon of watching Grandstand. Questioned by Sergeant Metcalfe he gave a reasonably accurate account of the events featured, but, as both detectives well knew, he could have gleaned a good deal from the Radio Times and repeats in later programmes. No one had called at the house until Metcalfe himself just after six. He’d heard nothing of his neighbours until the two families had returned from their weekly outing to Polharbour shortly afterwards. Then he’d scratched round for a bit of tea.

  Dart adjudged that the psychological moment had arrived.

  ‘A chap fending for himself’s a poor sort of thing,’ he remarked easily. ‘You had it in for Sister Roach, hadn’t you, for splitting on you to your wife?’

  To his amazement and chagrin Fred nodded agreement.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, adding a string of unprintable epithets. ‘Comin’ between a man an’ wife. But ’twurn’t me sent ’er wur she berlonged, fer all that.’

  ‘Your wife had an anonymous letter, I understand,’ said Dart. ‘How did you know Sister Roach had written it?’

  He listened to much the same account of Sister Roach’s snooping tendencies that Ethel Earwaker had given to Olivia Strode. In addition Fred admitted an occasion when he and Luisa had been disturbed while having a bit of fun in the bushes. He had crept out to see Sister Roach hurrying off in the direction of the house. It was after this that she had tried to blackmail him.

  ‘I couldn’t swear on the Bible as I knows she wrote ’un,’ he concluded, ‘but if ’twur me last word I’d say she did, an’ allus will.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve nothing more to tell us,’ Dart said after a pause, ‘Sergeant Metcalfe here will type out a statement and give it to you to read. If you agree that it’s a true record of what you’ve told us, he’ll ask you to sign it. And if you can think of anybody who could have seen or heard that you were in your house between four and five on Saturday, the sooner you get on to us about it the better.’

  He got up and squeezed out of the cramped little room with difficulty, dislodging some copies of The Merchant of Venice in the process. As he crossed the front hall Faith Ainsworth darted out of a door and intercepted him.

  ‘I’ve a message for you, Inspector,’ she said, clasping and reclasping her hands in a worried way. ‘It’s from Mrs Strode who’s helping us in the East Wing — the sanatorium, that is. She says that she wants to see you as soon as possible, and that it’s important.’

  Chapter Eleven

  It was after midnight on Sunday when Olivia Strode left Crossways. Julian insisted on getting out the car and running her home. They sat outside Poldens in the intimacy of shared anxiety, their voices unconsciously lowered in the enfolding silence of the sleeping village.

  ‘Julian, do you mind?’ Olivia asked. ‘About your early history, I mean?’

  ‘No. Actually, it’s a relief. Even when I was quite small I knew somehow that Mummy didn’t mean to me what other children’s mothers did to them. I’ve always felt guilty about it. That’s over now: it’s a kind of liberation. I think I must have known all along in some instinctive way.’

  ‘Perhaps you sensed it telepathically from Barbara. What are you going to do about David and this business of the murder?’

  ‘Ring him very early tomorrow, being cagey, of course. Even with S.T.D. people might be able to listen in... I shall simply tell him to look at the papers and get down here as soon as he possibly can. I — I suppose our solicitors in Highcastle really are competent?’ Her voice quivered a little.

  ‘Merrydew and Drake? I’ve always heard they’re a first-class firm,’ Olivia said bracingly.

  Olivia slept very little and got up at half-past seven to discover how exhausted the strain of the past thirty-six hours had left her. As she bathed and breakfasted she wondered how long it would be before the Ainsworths managed to get at any rate a temporary replacement for Sister Roach. Glad though she was to help them, the unaccustomed work in the East Wing was extremely tiring. Poldens, too, was beginning to look neglected, while the Parish History seemed to belong to a different world.

  She had hardly taken over at nine o’clock when the occupational hazards of institutional life started crowding in on her. The woman from the village who did the cleaning in the East Wing was off sick, and her substitute, uncertain of what had to be done, bumbled about in an ineffective and maddening manner. A lavatory cistern suddenly began to overflow torrentially, and a telephone call to the school secretary’s office produced the information that the handyman had just been sent in to Leeford. John Dalby and Richard Miles were up and dressed, awaiting discharge by Dr Coppin, when he paid his routine visit after his morning surgery. They had already fallen foul of Mrs Claythorpe, and as Olivia struggled to tie up the arm of the ballcock, she was startled by a violent thud against the door of their ward, accompanied by
yells of ‘Wham! Gotcher!’

  Opening the door with difficulty, for there was a pillow on the floor just inside, she was confronted by a Dalek, draped in an eiderdown through which the handles of two toothbrushes were gripped so as to form the two thin projecting arms. In the far corner John Dalby’s tousled head appeared over the wire mattress of a bed on its side. The pillows of all the other beds together with various other movable objects had been gathered to form a heap of ammunition.

  ‘Please, Mrs Strode, can we have our elevenses in case Dr Coppin’s late and we miss them over at school?’ he enquired with a beaming smile.

  The Dalek glided forward, moving the toothbrushes up and down in a suppliant gesture.

  ‘Be-a-sport-Mrs Strode,’ it intoned hollowly.

  ‘You’re very naughty boys,’ Olivia said sternly, trying to conceal her amusement. ‘Anyone would think you were six instead of ten. The ward’s in a disgraceful state. Take off that eiderdown at once. Richard ... oh, look, now you’ve dropped the toothbrushes on the floor! Pick them up and rinse them under the tap. You certainly won’t have any elevenses until everything’s been put straight again. I shall come and see presently.’

  She managed to retire in good order, and repaired to the pantry where she set about preparing two mugs of cocoa and some bread and jam. A glance at the clock showed her that it was nearly ten. With any luck Dr Coppin would arrive in about half an hour, and she’d send those two little wretches packing... If there weren’t any in-patients, perhaps she could go back to Poldens and just be on call.

  The telephone rang, breaking in on this pleasing thought.

  ‘Mrs Coppin speaking,’ said a brisk voice. ‘Oh, it’s you, Olivia! My dear, what a tower of strength you’re being to the poor Ainsworths. I’ve rung to say that Bill’s had to dash off to Higher Cragtor Farm: there’s been a bad accident with the tractor. He won’t be able to get along to you until after lunch, as he’s got one or two other rather urgent cases. My dear, do tell me...’

  When Sonia Coppin rang off, Olivia sat for a moment with closed eyes, mustering her reserves of energy. Then she put through a call on the house telephone to the school secretary, who commiserated and undertook to have the boys’ dinners sent over to the East Wing. Returning to the kitchen she heated the cocoa again and took the tray of elevenses to the ward. It had been tidied in a rough and ready fashion, and the boys rose politely to their feet as she came in.

  ‘Now, listen,’ she said. ‘Dr Coppin’s been called out to an accident on one of the farms, and won’t be coming until after lunch, so you can’t go back to school till then. And please understand that I don’t want any more nonsense from either of you.’

  ‘No, Mrs Strode,’ they agreed virtuously, their eyes on the tray.

  ‘What about settling down to a jigsaw?’ she suggested. ‘They’re splendid things for making the time go quickly. I’ll get you one from the games cupboard if you like.’

  Rather to her surprise the idea was well received.

  Peace descended on the East Wing, so all-embracing that Olivia’s suspicions were presently aroused. Leaving the linen which she was sorting she went quietly along the passage and saw that the door of the boys’ ward was ajar. She had maligned them: they were sitting side by side at a table, absorbed by the puzzle.

  ‘It is a car!’ exclaimed John Dalby. ‘Look, here’s a bit of the windscreen with the licence.’

  ‘Here’s a bit of the number plate. Wonder what make it is?’

  ‘Could be a Mercedes, like Tycoon Roy Garnish’s smasher.’

  ‘I say! You saw them go off this morning, didn’t you, when I was in the loo? Was it old Roy this time, or Ma Garnish’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ John Dalby’s voice rose to an incredulous squeak. ‘But she’s old! About forty, I should think.’

  ‘She brings a boyfriend along when Pa Garnish doesn’t come,’ Richard Miles asserted confidently. ‘Tim Ferrars found out.’

  ‘Don’t believe it! How?’

  ‘He did a Round-the-World one night when he was in with pink-eye before half-term. He told me. He’s a sort of cousin of mine.’

  ‘Lummy! Was he copped?’

  ‘Not him! He’s as fly as they come. He waited till Cockroach put out his light and he heard her telly going, and then oozed out of the window. He was on his own because pink-eye’s catching.’

  ‘Which way round did he go?’

  ‘Round the back and the West Wing. That’s when he saw them — Ma Garnish and a chap, having supper with lots of drinks in the kitchen. It was a jolly warm night, and they’d got the window up at the bottom, and the curtains were swinging in the draught.’

  ‘I bet the chap was R.G. all the time.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Listen to the rest of it, fathead. Tim thought it was him until they started talking about him. About Pa Garnish, I mean. The chap said he wondered how old Roy was getting on, and they sat and laughed themselves sick. So the chap couldn’t have been him. Q.E.D. And next morning Tim watched ’em drive off, and the chap had a whacking great muffler half hiding his ugly mug. Laugh that off!’

  Olivia realized that it was her hand which was hurting her, and relaxed her unconscious grip of the door-post. She listened avidly, hardly daring to breathe; but with the inconsequence of small boys they had suddenly lost interest in the subject and reverted to the jigsaw. She withdrew as noiselessly as she could, and went to the surgery. With hands which shook slightly she took from a drawer a book labelled Register of In-patients.

  A careful record had been kept ever since the opening of the school. There were columns headed ‘Name’, ‘Age’, ‘Date of Admission’, ‘Complaint’, and ‘Doctor’s Remarks’, the entries under the last of these being almost wholly illegible. Olivia ran her finger down the first column for the current term. She learnt that Timothy Ferrars, aged eleven years four months, had been admitted on Monday, October 27th, suffering from conjunctivitis, and discharged again on the following Saturday, November 1st.

  Monday, October 27th, had been the day of the Revel meeting, when Barbara Winship had received the blackmailing letter and had a nervous collapse in the evening. It was on the afternoon of Tuesday, October 28th, that she herself saw the Garnishes’ car passing Poldens in the late afternoon, and had the brief telephone conversations, first with Pamela, and then, ostensibly, with Roy who was hoarse and unrecognizable with a bad cold.

  Olivia felt muzzy with tiredness. She rested her head on her hands and struggled to think clearly. Unless both Fred and Ethel Earwaker were lying, which seemed unlikely, Sister Roach had been seen creeping furtively round the back of the Priory one night last spring. If Timothy Ferrars, out on an illicit Round-the-World, had seen and heard a man with Pamela who wasn’t Roy, surely the odds were that a purposeful snooper like Sister Roach would have got on to it too? Of course it could have been the one and only time that Pamela had risked it...

  Quite suddenly Olivia’s mind leapt forward so violently that she seemed to experience a physical shock. What about that very first time that she’d rung the West Wing? The time when Roy hadn’t been able to come and speak to her because he was in his bath, and Pamela had quickly brushed aside her offer to ring again at a more convenient time, and insisted on acting as a messenger? In retrospect Olivia remembered that she had thought it slightly odd, but had put it down to the Garnishes’ well-known aversion to getting embroiled with the village.

  Suppose that Sister Roach had been blackmailing Pamela? For a moment far-reaching implications darted into Olivia’s mind, but her excitement subsided as she remembered that both Garnishes had spent last Saturday afternoon and early evening in Polharbour. Or had they? No, she was being idiotic. Pamela would hardly have enlisted her husband’s help in disposing of a blackmailer who was bleeding her on the grounds of her infidelity to him. Besides, could that thin-looking woman really have had the physical strength to carry out this particular murder? It seemed doubtful, to say the least of it. No, she really was being dim. Pamela
would have turned to her lover, of course. Couldn’t he have kept an appointment made with Sister Roach, while Pamela established a cast-iron alibi for herself in Polharbour?

  Olivia’s thoughts raced furiously. If this man had been in Affacombe on Saturday afternoon, surely someone must have noticed him? She smothered an exclamation as she remembered the match. It was an accepted thing that parents and friends often turned up to watch matches and take boys out afterwards. On these occasions strangers were taken for granted and attracted little interest.

  The whole baffling situation seemed to be taking on a new significance. Her weariness forgotten, Olivia hurried to the house telephone, and asked if Inspector Dart were still on the premises. On learning that he was, she left an urgent message asking him to come over to the East Wing as soon as possible. Stuffy and tiresome though he is, she thought, he can’t flatly refuse to listen to me, surely?

  Getting no answer to his knock, Dart opened the door of the East Wing and walked in. As he paused in the passage he heard a woman’s voice in the distance, apparently engaged in a telephone conversation. A door near at hand opened quietly, and a boy’s head emerged.

  ‘I say, Super, will you give us your autograph?’

  A second head followed the first.

  ‘Oh, please do, sir!’

  Amused, his exasperation with Olivia Strode abating, Dart stood in the doorway, looking down on two eager faces.

  ‘It’s been the lousiest luck, sir, being shut up here while there’s a murder hunt going on in school.’

  ‘You see, if we had your autograph we’d be able to slap down the other chaps when we go back. I say, you haven’t given it to anyone else, have you?’ Richard Miles’ intelligent, cheeky face momentarily clouded over with anxiety.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Dart said, taking a ball pen from his pocket and accepting a couple of grubby envelopes. ‘But I’m not a Super, you know. I’m a Detective-Inspector.’

  ‘P’raps you’ll be promoted, sir, if you track down the murderer. Are you and your sergeant hot on the trail?’