The Affacombe Affair

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve been on a case with you, sir, that you haven’t set about tabulating facts and drawing up timetables from the word go.’

  ‘There’s bloody little to tabulate so far, let’s face it,’ said Pollard, splitting the last bottle of beer between them. ‘For one thing, there are no contradictory statements. People freely admit being blackmailed, and even to being on the scene of the murder at the critical time. Then, apart from motive, the evidence against Barbara Winship is purely circumstantial, and not at all conclusive at that. Of course we’ll vet that path and Dart’s timing, but I don’t see how anything definite can emerge when it’s a matter of minutes. And slugging and chucking over a cliff isn’t a characteristically feminine method of committing murder, although one can’t argue from that, of course, as Roach seems to have been a small woman and Winship well-built and tall. As to the gardener chap, he’s got a motive, assuming that he wanted to get his wife back instead of being grateful to Roach for her departure, but there’s not even circumstantial evidence against him at present. It’s entirely up to us to prove that he wasn’t in his cottage all the afternoon, and so far there hasn’t been a soul who claims to have seen him out and about.’

  Toye turned back some pages.

  ‘There are still a few houses where enquiries haven’t been made yet.’

  ‘True. We’ll have to check up on those, although I expect it’ll be more cases of the Saturday afternoon Polharbour shopping spree. Then we’ve got the principals of the cast to work through: the Woman with the Guilty Secret, the Young Couple with a Fortune at Stake, the Ubiquitous Woman Writer and Broadcaster — the lot.’

  ‘Not to mention those boys,’ said Toye dubiously.

  ‘I’m inclined to give those a miss for the moment. We’ll be on much firmer ground over the boyfriend if the Yard can get on to something about Mrs Garnish’s love-life... God, look at the time! We’d better turn in. I don’t believe in drawing up a rigid list of priorities when a situation’s as fluid as this one: you could miss an important lead that way.’

  The news that Scotland Yard had been called in filtered through to Affacombe in the course of Monday evening, and was received with satisfaction. The move was felt to elevate Sister Roach’s murder to an event of national importance, and also to indicate that it had been committed by a foreigner, in the local sense of someone unconnected with the village.

  The bar of the Priory Arms did a roaring trade, as good as a fine August Bank Holiday or Election night, Ted Cummings the landlord told one of the newspaper men. A group of these was waiting about on the chance of seeing the Scotland Yard men arrive that night, and would be at the inquest on the following morning in case there were unexpected developments. Inside the pub the noise was terrific and the air thick with smoke. Outside parked cars, scooters and bicycles stretched up and down the street.

  The awkwardness of the Earwaker marital situation had been conveniently forgotten in the general excitement over the murder. In the bar, his status and popularity re-established, Fred was being the not unwilling target of sly digs about his affair with Luisa. His unsupported alibi for Saturday afternoon was discussed vigorously in terms of the Englishman’s rights before the Law.

  ‘T’ain’t up ter you, Fred. It be up ter them, see?’

  ‘Trust ’em to pick on a workin’ man, the boogers.’

  It did not escape notice, however, that Fred left for home well before closing time, and there were some good-natured bawdy comments about the price of getting Ethel back.

  Hugh Winship learnt about Scotland Yard from a fellow member of the County Council Parks Committee which was meeting in Highcastle on Monday afternoon. He hurried away as soon as he possibly could, and managed to catch his solicitor at his office. James Merrydew was noncommittal about the implications of the new move. Sometimes a police authority was reluctant to bring a charge against people of standing in the neighbourhood. On the other hand it was to be hoped that the arrival of the Yard meant that a non-local lead had been discovered, which would result in an arrest being made, and Mrs Winship being delivered from her unfortunately invidious position.

  Hugh drove home feeling depressed and worried. Seeing a light in Olivia’s sitting-room, he stopped his car and called in to tell her the news. On hearing it she resolutely suppressed her excitement, but felt justified in saying that it looked very much as though the police could have got on to something in Sister Roach’s past. Greatly cheered, for he had a high opinion of Olivia’s sagacity, Hugh went on home, where he broke the news to Barbara and Julian. Watching his wife he saw her go tense, and hastened to be reassuring.

  ‘Out of a different stable, these fellows from the Yard,’ he told her. ‘It must mean they’ve got on to something in the woman’s past.’

  After supper Julian went down to Poldens to let Olivia know that David was paying them a flying visit the next day.

  ‘He rang me again this evening. The senior partners are being most awfully decent, he says, and he’ll turn up as soon as he can make it, although he’ll probably be pretty late. It’s a purely personal visit, of course — James Merrydew and professional etiquette, and so forth.’ She gazed at Olivia, starry-eyed, yet with a slightly guilty expression. ‘It’s awful of me, but I keep realizing that I’ve forgotten why he’s coming, and can only remember that he is!’

  ‘Not awful at all,’ Olivia said decisively. ‘It’s some natural law in operation. The human race would have died out long ago if the young weren’t able to reach out for the future from a sticky present.’

  At the Priory School John Ainsworth had adopted the slogan ‘Business as Usual’ and started rehearsing the Christmas pantomime, having hastily excised all references to Sister Roach and the East Wing from the script. He was enjoying himself so much that he was irritated by a well-meant telephone call from Hugh Winship to tell him about Scotland Yard.

  ‘The Lord God Almighty can come and take over the case as far as I’m concerned,’ he said, ‘as long as it’s cleared up and the school can get on with its job again.’

  Shortly before closing time the rumour that Sergeant Murch was outside percolated through the packed bar of the Priory Arms, and lent invaluable support to Ted Cummings when it came to clearing out his customers. When the noise of the departing cars and scooters had died away, and the wash of the headlights over granite and cob had yielded to darkness once more, deep silence enfolded the village, broken only by the hunting owls and the immemorial running commentary of the Sinnel.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Before leaving for Affacombe on the following morning Pollard rang the Yard and put enquiries in train relating to Julian Wrey’s birth certificate and the provisions of her grandfather’s will. He also allowed time for a visit to the police station at Leeford en route and introduced Toye and himself to a gratified Sergeant Murch. While stoutly maintaining that the murderer must be an outsider, the latter produced some useful sidelines on the inhabitants of the village. Mr and Mrs Ainsworth were a very nice couple, and everybody was sorry that all this trouble had come on them. The school was well-run, and of course it meant jobs for Affacombe people, and even for one or two from Leeford. But it would be better without the foreign girls, who made for upsets with the village lads, and even with a married man now and again, like Fred Earwaker, though that business seemed to have blown over now that Ethel was back. No, in Murch’s opinion, Fred never did the murder. He wasn’t a man for what you might call delayed action like that.

  Mrs Winship? Well, there was no denying that she had a motive, and had happened to be along the Monk’s Path that afternoon, but for all that it didn’t ring true. Altogether too — well — energetic. The lazy, comfort-loving sort, Mrs Winship: she’d never stand if she could sit, never mind if other folk were on their feet. Always pleasant-spoken, to you, though, even if a bit too much the lady for some. Now the Colonel, he was a different cup of tea. Bluff in his way of speaking, but a real good friend to anyone who was up against it. He’
d stand by his wife whatever came out, if it ever did. You’d never credit that she was that sort now, but she must have been a pretty young girl, and maybe tripped up when the war was on, and everything at sixes and sevens. It looked as though that was where Roach must have come in, didn’t it? Bit of real bad luck for Mrs Winship, her turning up in a little place like Affacombe.

  Miss Wrey? Everyone had a good word for her. Much more like her stepfather than her mother. A very popular match, her and young Mr Strode, who was almost Affacombe born, and a lawyer up in London now. His father and mother had come there on their honeymoon, and taken such a liking to the place that they’d bought Poldens, where Mrs Strode was living now. Very much liked and well-thought-of, Mrs Strode. Clever, too, and people liked seeing her on the telly, even if half of ’em didn’t rightly know what she was talking about. Why, she was dependable all right. Anything that came from her could be taken as gospel.

  ‘All this has been a tremendous help,’ Pollard said. ‘I’m dashed grateful to you, Sergeant. I hope you don’t mind our parking ourselves on you like this? I’ve told the Yard to contact me here during the day.’

  Sergeant Murch, overcome at the prospect of direct contact with the higher powers, muttered that it was an honour, and the Inspector had only got to say...

  ‘Knows his job,’ Inspector Dart muttered grudgingly to Pollard in the Village Hall at Affacombe, as the coroner opened and adjourned the inquest on Sister Roach in record time. Evidence of identity had been given by John Ainsworth as the deceased’s employer, since Mrs. Grant of Lewisham, her half-sister, was an elderly invalid, unequal to making the journey.

  After signing the burial certificate and briefly conferring with Pollard and Dart, the coroner, a busy Polharbour solicitor, hurried to his car and drove off at speed. Affacombe residents of the less sophisticated type, who had looked forward to a morning of sensational disclosures, melted away, and the journalists closed in on the policemen.

  ‘Have a heart,’ said Pollard. ‘I’ve only just arrived. You all know a lot more about the set-up than I do.’

  Managing to satisfy them temporarily with some noncommittal statements, he at last shook them off, and strolled with Dart towards the latter’s car.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be getting along,’ Dart said. ‘Good luck to you. Let us know if you want any help. Perhaps you’ll be looking in?’ he added, unexpectedly wistful.

  ‘You bet I shall,’ replied Pollard heartily. ‘You’ll all be sick of the sight of me before I’m through. You can get on to me through the Leeford station if anything comes from the Yard about the boyfriend. And I’d like to know if you get a report on that heel-print. I’ll be in tonight, if and when I get away from here.’

  Remarking that the lab boys would have to be bloody wizards to make anything of it, Dart boarded his car and went off. Pollard turned to wink at Toye, but seeing that the latter’s face had become suddenly expressionless, hastily composed his features.

  ‘There’s a lady here who’d like a word with you, sir,’ Toye told him, and stepped aside to reveal a figure in a long tubular Burberry and horizontal felt hat with a pudding-basin crown.

  Pollard had a flashback of himself arranging the two-by-two procession of animals on the dining-room table, with Mr and Mrs Noah standing at the threshold of the Ark to usher it inside.

  The wearer of these evocative garments advanced with hand outstretched.

  ‘Rainbird. Miss Hilda,’ she announced.

  Pollard shook the hand and introduced himself and Toye.

  ‘I shall be very glad to hear anything you have to tell me which has a bearing on the case, Miss Rainbird,’ he said.

  ‘This way, then.’ She set off so briskly that Pollard had to lengthen his stride. ‘Only a stone’s throw to the church.’

  ‘You’re a resident of Affacombe, I take it?’ he asked her, wondering what she could conceivably have to tell him which involved the church. Or perhaps she thought it was a suitable milieu for making a statement to the police?

  ‘Certainly,’ she replied in answer to his question. ‘Corbel Cottage. Fourth on the right after the turning. The Vicar will vouch for my character. I have carried out the duties of verger and sacristan since 1956, when old Malachy Twitchen died in harness. Oil-fired central heating made it possible. Not the grave-digging, of course. A little group of the men see to that. Here we are.’

  As they turned in at the lychgate Pollard registered the row of cottages immediately opposite, and shot a quick look at Toye, who nodded. The path sloped up gently to the south porch, which was protected by an outer door of wire netting.

  ‘Birds,’ remarked Hilda Rainbird succinctly, pushing it open.

  ‘Last Saturday afternoon I was standing here at 4.15 precisely. I —’

  ‘Just one minute, Miss Rainbird,’ Pollard broke in. ‘I’d like to have a little background, if I may. Are you usually here at that time? Suppose we sit down?’

  She subsided on to one of the stone seats flanking the interior of the porch, and planted her feet in front of her. Pollard and Toye sat down on the opposite side.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am. The Vicar —’ she lowered her voice slightly, imparting an esoteric flavour to the statement — ‘is in Church from 2.30 to 3.30 on Saturday afternoon. Unless there is a wedding. Then he is there, too, of course, but for a different purpose.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Pollard, one of whose aunts was an ardent Anglo-Catholic.

  ‘So I have to come later in the afternoon to get ready for Sunday,’ pursued Miss Rainbird. ‘And to clear up. We have a Flower Rota. People must be drawn in, but some have very little idea. They slop water, or else forget to fill up their vases. Or even to come at all.’

  ‘So normally you come along soon after half-past three and stay for about half an hour?’ suggested Pollard.

  ‘At least. It depends on whose week it is on the Flower Rota. One soon gets to know. Shall I go on telling you about last Saturday now?’

  ‘Please do.’

  Toye unobtrusively took out his notebook.

  ‘It was smoke. It came quite suddenly out of the Earwakers’ chimney. Someone had made up the kitchen fire.’

  ‘Are you quite sure that it was the Earwakers’ chimney, and not one of the others?’ asked Pollard, getting up and standing in the doorway. ‘There are four cottages and four chimneys across the road, aren’t there?’

  ‘Quite certain. It’s that second one from the left. I looked hard.’

  ‘Why were you so interested?’

  ‘I hoped it might mean that Ethel Earwaker had come back. I’m sure you know all about the trouble over there.’

  ‘Miss Rainbird,’ Pollard said, turning and facing her, ‘this is very important. Are you prepared to swear that you saw smoke suddenly come out of that chimney at four-fifteen last Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘On the Bible,’ she replied without hesitation, the old-fashioned phrase conveying an unshakeable assurance.

  ‘How is it that you are so certain of the exact time?’

  ‘The clock chimed the quarter just as I came out to lock up, and it was then that I saw the smoke. I stood on the step looking at it.’

  Pollard considered, and then shot an abrupt question at her.

  ‘Have you mentioned this matter of the smoke to Fred Earwaker?’

  Hilda Rainbird faced him squarely, her grey eyes shrewd in her weather-beaten country face, and her roughened hands clasped before her.

  ‘No, Inspector, I haven’t. I’ll swear that on the Bible too, if you like.’

  ‘Did you see anyone go past while you were watching the smoke?’ he asked her, casually this time.

  ‘Only Mrs Strode. She lives at Poldens, down at the bottom of the village. She was going to tea at the Vicarage, I expect. She didn’t see me, though. She’d have waved if she had. Always so nice and friendly, Mrs Strode, although she’s wonderfully clever, you know.’

  ‘Bang goes Earwaker, sir?’ asked Toye as they walked back to
their car.

  ‘I think so. Sea-green incorruptible, that old girl. We’ll go along and have a bash at the chap now. He’ll be working up at the school, so that means a call on the headmaster. Politeness always pays.’

  John Ainsworth was engaged with some prospective parents, but his secretary assured Pollard that every facility was to be made available to him. She directed them to the vegetable garden where Fred Earwaker was working. This lay beyond the West Wing which they eyed with interest as they walked past. Pollard pointed out a second, and apparently unused drive stretching to the north-west. On entering the walled garden they saw a tall fair-headed man digging vigorously in his shirtsleeves. As they came up to him he straightened up, planted his right foot on the spade and stared at them belligerently, red in the face from his exertions.

  ‘Brought the ’andcuffs all the way from Lunnon?’ he asked with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘Mr Fred Earwaker?’ enquired Pollard.

  ‘That’s me name. I arst if you’d brought the ’andcuffs?’

  ‘No,’ Pollard replied. ‘I believe in travelling light. I’ve come to ask you a simple question about last Saturday afternoon.’

  Fred Earwaker stated forcibly that he had already told the police where and how he had spent last Saturday afternoon.

  ‘There’s one thing you didn’t tell Inspector Dart, though.’

  ‘Wot’s that?’

  ‘If you made up the fire during the afternoon?’

  ‘Wot if I did? Free country, ain’t it?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Orl right, I did. Though wot the ’ell —’

  ‘Did you put the light on when you made it up?’

  A faint glimmer of comprehension dawned in Fred Earwaker’s face, and he became less truculent.

  ‘That’s right. Kitchen’s dark of an evenin’. Faces south-east. I switched on the electric fer a coupla minits.’