The Affacombe Affair

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘You must never question police officers, you know,’ Dart told them with solemnity. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Detective-Inspector J. F. Dart, C.ID.,’ Richard read aloud. ‘Thanks most awfully, sir.’

  Dart turned as Olivia Strode came into the room, feeling slightly self-conscious. Inevitably they exchanged an amused glance, and felt a perceptible lessening of the tension between them.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘A parent rang up about a chicken-pox quarantine problem. How kind of you to give the boys your autograph. Now listen, you two. Your dinners will be coming over from school in about half an hour. Just stay in here out of the way while Inspector Dart has another look round.’

  ‘Please, Mrs Strode,’ pleaded John, ‘couldn’t we just have one or two biscuits to keep us going?’

  ‘You need an awful lot of calories when you’re a growing boy, my Mum says,’ Richard told her.

  Disregarding the ethics of bribery in the interests of peace and quiet, Olivia fetched a liberal supply of biscuits from the pantry, which was received with astonished gratification.

  ‘Jolly little blighters,’ Dart remarked, as he followed her to the ward where he had interviewed her before.

  ‘They’re irresistible, really,’ she agreed, as they sat down in front of an electric fire. ‘All the same, I must confess I’m beginning to find them a bit wearing. They’re perfectly fit again and ought to have been discharged this morning, but the doctor was called out to an accident case, and can’t get here until after lunch. As a matter of fact it’s something to do with them that I feel I ought to report to you. About half an hour ago they were so quiet that I thought they must be up to something. I went along to see, and found that the ward door was ajar. I peeped in, and they were sitting with their backs to me doing a jigsaw puzzle, and having a conversation about a night during the week beginning Monday, October 27th. It wasn’t clear which one. Shall I go on?’

  ‘Please do, Mrs Strode,’ Dart replied, his surprise tinged with a touch of scepticism about Olivia’s motives. ‘I’ll interrupt if necessary.’

  ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘I’d better go back to the afternoon of Tuesday, October 28th, which is where I come in myself. No doubt —’ Dart was aware of a shrewd glance — ‘you think it’s very odd the way I keep cropping up in this case, Inspector, but it’s through no choice of my own, I can assure you. Anyway, soon after four on that afternoon I was drawing the curtains in my sitting-room, and from the window overlooking the village street I saw the Garnishes’ car heading up the hill in this direction.’

  Dart listened in growing bewilderment as Olivia described her first meeting with Roy and Pamela Garnish, and the reason for her telephone call to the former on the evening of October 28th.

  ‘Did it strike you at the time that the man who spoke to you didn’t sound like Mr. Garnish?’ he broke in.

  ‘Not for a single moment. The speaker was very hoarse and catarrhal, as you would expect someone with a bad cold to be, and anyway, I wasn’t familiar with Mr Garnish’s speaking voice, having only met him once before.’

  ‘Carry on then, please.’

  Olivia had a good memory and managed to give him an almost verbatim report of the boys’ conversation about Timothy Ferrars’ alleged exploit. Dart, who had a temperamental aversion to anything bordering on the fantastic, listened with increasing annoyance and some dismay. Preposterous though the whole story was, his professional experience warned him that it would be unwise to disregard it entirely. To gain time he made no comment when Olivia finished, and let her go on to Ethel Earwaker’s account of how Fred claimed to have seen Sister Roach behaving suspiciously one night during the spring. He noted that the facts tallied with those given by Fred himself.

  ‘What sort of boy is this young Ferrars?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘I don’t even know him by sight, I’m afraid,’ Olivia said. ‘Normally I hardly ever come into contact with the boys, apart from getting invitations to school plays and concerts.’

  This at any rate was an indication that there was some truth in the story, Dart thought. If she’d simply invented it as a red herring to divert him from Winship, she’d have built up Ferrars as a thoroughly reliable boy.

  ‘You’ve a son of your own. haven’t you, Mrs Strode?’ he asked, trying out another tack. ‘What was your reaction to those two boys this morning? Was Ferrars’ cousin trying to lead the other boy up the garden path, do you think? He looked a bit of a lad to me, and kids have rum ideas of humour.’

  ‘I’m pretty certain he wasn’t,’ Olivia replied thoughtfully. ‘For one thing they’re both too intelligent. I mean, Richard Miles, who told the story, would know better than to waste his time trying to fool a boy like John Dalby, even if he might try it on with someone rather dim and gullible if he felt like ragging. And there was something very natural and convincing in the way they suddenly got bored with it all and began to talk about something else in the disconnected way children do. And in the first place I can’t see Richard Miles being led up the garden path by his cousin, who’s very little older.’

  Dart sat and considered. The more he thought about this new development the less clearly could he see his way ahead Why, even the most tentative questioning of Ferrars would have the story all over the school in no time, and it could easily get round to the Garnishes. Suppose there really was something in it? He realized belatedly that Olivia Strode was speaking.

  ‘...Ferrars was right, and the man he saw was someone Mrs Garnish had brought down and was passing off as her husband, it’s a very curious and suggestive situation, surely, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I follow you, Mrs Strode,’ he replied rather coldly as his suspicion of her returned.

  ‘Well,’ she said deliberately, ‘if I had brought a man down here in my husband’s absence and without his knowledge, and somebody found out and tried to blackmail me, I’d certainly discuss possible ways of getting out of the mess with the man.’ Dart showed his annoyance at what he considered was an attempt to teach him his job by bringing the interview to an abrupt end.

  ‘I’m sure you realize the importance of absolute discretion in an enquiry of this sort, Mrs Strode,’ he said as he got to his feet. ‘I must warn you that repeating what you have told me this morning to anyone — anyone at all — might have the most serious consequences.’

  Outside in the colonnade Dart stood for a few minutes debating whether to seek out John Ainsworth and get an opinion on Timothy Ferrars. Sooner or later something must be done to check up on the story. Finally, the memory of Faith Ainsworth, intense and agitated, tipped the scales in favour of a prior consultation with his superiors. At the back of his mind the weak points of his case against Barbara Winship and the problem of Fred Earwaker’s alibi were lurking disquietingly. He made a sudden decision and walked across the gravel sweep to the police car in which Sergeant Metcalfe was sitting patiently.

  ‘Highcastle,’ he said briefly as he got in. ‘We’ll have some grub there.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Ever heard of a place called Affacombe?’ asked Chief Detective-Superintendent Crowe of New Scotland Yard.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Chief Detective-Inspector Tom Pollard.

  Crowe favoured him with his characteristic bird-like stare.

  ‘Well, it’ll soon be written on your heart, like Calais on Bloody Mary’s. Someone’s chucked a nurse over a precipice down there, and you’re the lucky little chap who’s going along to find out whodunnit. It happened forty-eight hours ago, just long enough for the trail to have cooled off nicely. Their C.C. rang us last night to ask for some enquiries to be made, but it took them until a couple of hours ago to decide to call us in.’

  ‘West Country, isn’t it?’ asked Pollard.

  ‘Yeah. Twenty miles from Highcastle. They’ve taken the usual line: more on their plates at the moment than they can cope with. Another murder on the far side of the county, and a big drugs hunt on at Overport. Also ther
e’s a possibility that it isn’t a local job. Fag?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Pollard took a cigarette from the box thrust across the desk, and offered his Chief a light.

  ‘I’ll tell you all they gave us, and a few things we’ve unearthed since yesterday,’ Crowe went on. ‘You’ll have time to get the 7.15 from Paddington, and their Inspector Dart who’s been in charge up to now’ll meet you, and hand over when he’s briefed you. The inquest’s out at Affacombe at ten tomorrow, and there’ll be an adjournment after establishment of identity. By then you’ll have got the hang of things.’

  Crowe tilted back his white head and watched a perfect smoke ring wreathe and disintegrate. Although he was on the brink of retirement his memory was as phenomenally retentive as ever.

  ‘Ever heard of Countrywide Properties?’ he resumed.

  ‘Frequently,’ ventured Pollard.

  ‘That’s something, anyway. A bit of general knowledge helps in our job. The bloke behind ’em is Roy Garnish, a highly successful tycoon on a medium scale. He owns Bagnall and Mayhew’s, too, the posh estate agency with its head office in West Audley Street. They deal in houses and so on all over the country, not just in the commuter belt. About fifteen years ago Countrywide Properties bought up Affacombe Priory, a smallish stately home. Garnish seems to have taken a fancy to it, without losing his eye to the main chance. He modernized it, kept a wing as a weekend retreat for himself and his wife, and let off the rest to a boys’ prep school. It’s the school nurse who’s had it.’

  ‘A bit far for weekends. I suppose he lives up here?’

  ‘Luxury flat in Kensington. Anyone at his level can afford to take time off when they feel like it, and run the sort of cars that make distance look silly without shaking the guts out of you. Returning to the nurse, she was a petty blackmailer. Been at it for years, apparently — they’ve found her Post Office book. Two of the locals, a retired colonel’s wife and one of the school gardeners admit to have been among the victims, and neither has a satisfactory alibi, according to Highcastle. In fact the lady doesn’t deny having been at the scene of the murder just about the time when it probably happened. It appears there are snags about charging her, though.’

  ‘Local bigwigs?’ asked Pollard.

  ‘Could be. I gather there’s something about timing, too. You’ll soon find out. Garnish and his wife were down there at the weekend, but have a cast-iron alibi in Polharbour over the time of the murder, and left to come back here early this morning. Since then a rather odd story has come out through a couple of kids at the school, and it’s vouched for to some extent by a woman who lives in the village and writes history books. Funny how these school cases seem to come your way, Pollard. You’ll be teaching yourself soon, if you aren’t careful, God help the new recruits. The story is that Mrs Garnish has been bringing down a boyfriend and passing him off as her husband. If it’s true by any chance, it’s a possible lead. Never theorize ahead of your data, though, as I may have said before.’

  ‘Do I take it, sir, that Mrs Garnish’s private life will be looked into up here, while I go down and get on with the fieldwork?’

  ‘That’s the idea. And as soon as you let us have some dope about the nurse, we’ll try and dig up her past. Blackmailers usually leave a trail. Well, you better push off and do a spot of work after sitting on your backside all the weekend. Nothing like being put on a robbery which doesn’t come off.’

  ‘Anything more come in on it, sir?’

  ‘Nix. The call-off reported by Henderson’s contact was obviously genuine, not the double-cross we suspected. Get cracking, if you’re catching that train. You want Toye, I suppose?’

  ‘I’d be jolly glad to have him if he can be spared.’

  ‘Right. Good hunting then.’ Crowe picked up some papers. ‘Here, come back,’ he called, as Pollard reached the door. ‘If you chance to go along the cliff road from Polharbour to Highcastle, you’ll see a decent little bungalow called Sunset View. I’ve bought it for my retirement. I’m changing the name to Crow’s Nest,’ he added with a touch of coyness.

  Blimey, thought Pollard, making his exit. If I pull off this job, do I make the grade, I wonder?

  Chief-Detective-Inspector Pollard and Detective-Sergeant Toye read the London evening papers in the train. The Affacombe murder had been a bonanza in a period unusually poor in sensational human interest. There were screaming headlines, and colourful accounts of Sister Roach’s disappearance, the search of the grounds and the discovery of the body by Sergeant Harry Murch of the Westshire Constabulary. The Evening Record had an interview with Tycoon Roy Garnish of Countrywide Properties, owner of Affacombe Priory, in his London home, and a photograph of the Monk’s Leap entitled The Death Drop. Mr Garnish had agreed with the Record that the murder was a shocking business. Headmaster John Ainsworth, ex-Rugger Blue, was obviously less experienced in dealing with the Press, and the Late News credited him with a number of statements of outstanding banality. This journal had gone to town on the legend of the Monk’s Leap, and invested the ruins with a traditionally sinister atmosphere, introducing Mr Andrew Pethybridge (87), who stated that as a nipper he had been thrashed by his father for venturing along the Monk’s Path after dark.

  Pollard flung down the newspapers and stretched.

  ‘I’m for a nap,’ he said. ‘We shall be up most of the night mugging away at the file.’

  Sergeant Toye agreed, and settled down in his corner.

  Inspector Dart, heavily gloomy at first, brightened up in face of Pollard’s and Toye’s friendliness and lack of what he had anticipated as Yard Lah-di-dah. He admitted frankly that he was glad to pass over the case.

  ‘Fact is,’ he said, ‘we don’t get a lot of homicides in this part of the world, and those we do are pretty straightforward as a rule. Drunks slugged in fights, or some young thug coshing an old biddy behind a counter a bit too hard. This Affacombe affair’s different. It’s got fancy touches, like one of those detective novels people write. And I shan’t be surprised if it’s an outside job — right outside our area, I mean. Deceased had moved round quite a bit, blackmailing as she went, from the look of it.’

  ‘Blackmail can have dashed long roots,’ Pollard agreed. ‘Her past could very well give us the lead we’re looking for. This large-scale map of yours is fine for giving us an idea of the lie of the land. I know everything’s in your report, but an outline recap of the whole show up to date would be an enormous help, if you can spare the time.’

  Dart’s careful, methodical mind duly produced a clear narrative of events, from the time when Sister Roach’s absence was first noticed to the decision by the Highcastle authorities to call in the Yard. When it came to getting across the personalities concerned, however, Pollard noted that he was much less successful. At the end of the account the three men sat smoking in silence.

  ‘At present, then,’ Pollard said thoughtfully after a lengthy pause, ‘the only evidence for the existence of Mrs Garnish’s boyfriend is the unsupported statement of this Mrs Strode, whose son is engaged to Mrs Winship’s daughter by her first marriage, who inherited a packet from her grandfather?’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Dart in a gratified tone. ‘It struck me, too, that it looked a bit fishy, but the Super and the C.C. weren’t keen on risking the balloon going up by questioning the kids, especially as you chaps were taking over the case.’

  ‘I’m thankful they haven’t been questioned: you can’t shut kids’ mouths, and of course there could be something in it. But Mrs Strode must be an utter fool if she thinks she can make up a yam like that and get away with it. Is she, do you think?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. She’s writing a book about Affacombe, and gives talks on TV about what happened around here in the Year One. Bit too clever, if you ask me. Why, she had the nerve to tell me in a roundabout sort of way that the boyfriend might be the murderer.’

  ‘She fancies herself as an amateur sleuth, I expect,’ Pollard said soothingly. ‘So many people do
. What are the young couple like?’

  ‘I haven’t seen either of ’em. The girl’s been working at the General Hospital here, Sergeant Murch of Leeford says, though the Lord knows why. She can’t need the cash. She’s just given up the job and gone home to get ready for the wedding. January it’s fixed for.’

  ‘Where were they both last Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ replied Dart, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘There was no sign of the girl when I interviewed her mother on Sunday evening.’

  He’s missed out on this altogether, Pollard thought with surprise. If the blackmail was something to do with the girl, in theory she and young Strode might have been involved in the murder. Suppose Roach knew she was illegitimate and threatened to let on? Would it affect the grandfather’s will? Better get it looked up at Somerset House.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Toye was saying, ‘I think the Inspector said something about an unknown man calling on Mrs Strode recently?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Dart, sounding relieved at the change of subject. ‘That dame keeps cropping up wherever you turn in the case. We didn’t get on to it before you people were called in, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You managed to get the hell of a lot done in forty-eight hours,’ Pollard said truthfully. ‘We’re dashed grateful to find so much already lined up. Now I suppose the best thing is for us to push off to our pub, and chew over your report and the statements.’

  After a short discussion about transport and arrangements for the inquest on the following morning, Pollard and Toye were conducted to the Southgate, Highcastle’s largest hotel, situated conveniently near the police headquarters. They were received with undisguised interest by the night porter, who undertook to bring up a supply of sandwiches and beer to Pollard’s room.

  For a couple of hours there was virtual silence, apart from the turning of pages and an occasional comment and exchange of papers. It was finally broken by Toye in the small hours of Tuesday morning.