They had reached the edge of the park, and Chatterton pointed to a narrow track running between the trees.
“That’s the way Mr Schultz went on his last walk,” he said. “The path’s about three quarters of a mile long. It leads right down to the lake. It’s very popular with picnickers and courting couples.”
“Why isn’t it sealed off?” Woodend asked.
“It was for a time, but our boys have been over it with a fine-toothed comb, so there didn’t seem much point in keeping it closed any longer.”
“An’ what did these boys of yours find with this fine-toothed comb they were usin’?”
“Apart from the button from Fred Foley’s coat, not much,” Chatterton confessed. “It rained overnight, you see. Quite a fierce storm. So any tracks there might have been were pretty much washed away.”
“Seems like the murderer had luck on his side,” Woodend said. “Or maybe he had inside knowledge. Perhaps what we should be lookin’ for is a weatherman with homicidal tendencies.”
Chatterton was getting used to Woodend’s sense of humour, and there were only a couple of seconds between the chief inspector’s statement and the inspector’s chuckle.
“I’m surprised you didn’t find the murder weapon,” Woodend mused. “In my experience, most killers who use a blunt instrument abandon it near the scene of the crime.”
“I’ve got some men out searching the field where we found Fred Foley’s overcoat,” Chatterton said, and pretended not to notice when Woodend shook his head doubtfully.
They followed the path as it twisted and turned between the trees. “How did the dead man manage to see his way along here at night?” the chief inspector asked. “Did he have a torch with him?”
“We didn’t find one if he did,” Chatterton said. “But there was a full moon that night, so he wouldn’t have had too much difficulty picking his way between the roots.”
“You’re sure of that?”
Chatterton nodded. “I tried it myself the following evening. It wasn’t exactly as light as day, but I managed perfectly well.”
“Glad to hear you’ve not just been sittin’ on your hands, waitin’ for me to arrive,” Woodend said. “There’s some forces I could mention that think just because they’ve called in the Yard . . .” He stopped speaking and came to a sudden halt. “We’re gettin’ close, aren’t we?”
“How did you know that, sir?”
“I can sense it. I’m a bit psychic on occasion. It’s nothin’ to be proud of – I sometimes think all it means is that I’m slowly goin’ round the twist – but there it is, an’ I use it when I can.”
“The body was found just round the next bend,” Chatterton said, and when they’d turned the bend he pointed down to the root of a mature chestnut tree. “Just there.”
Woodend closed his eyes tightly, and tried to conjure up a picture of what had happened on this spot a few nights earlier, but he appeared to have used up all his psychic powers for that day.
“Right, Inspector,” he said, “where’s that pint of best bitter you’ve been promisin’ me?”
Two
The bar of the Westbury Social Club was an uneasy mixture of faded elegance and modern practicality, with a moulded ceiling gazing down disapprovingly on a formica-topped bar, and high, elegant windows serving as no more than a backdrop for stacks of empty beer crates. There was a billiard table, such as the one the original inhabitants of the house might have played on, and a dartboard, of which they would definitely have disapproved.
The only person in evidence in the bar when Woodend, Rutter and Chatterton arrived was the steward, a middle-aged man called Tony, with a bald spot on the crown of his head and watchful, interested eyes.
Inspector Chatterton ordered three pints. Woodend took a generous sip of his, then smacked his lips contentedly.
“It’s a good pint is this, Tony,” he told the bar steward.
“The secret’s in the way you clean your pipes,” the other man said complacently.
Rutter, watching the exchange, chalked another one up to his boss. By complimenting Tony on his beer, Woodend had won himself a friend for life – and a very useful one indeed. Yet to be fair to his boss, the sergeant thought, he would never have said the beer was good if it hadn’t been, because in Woodend’s eyes telling lies about ale amounted almost to sacrilege.
“Were you on duty yourself the night this German feller went an’ got himself killed?” Woodend asked.
“I was,” the bar steward replied.
“How many people were there in here at the same time he was, would you say?”
Tony looked around the room, and Woodend guessed he was counting imaginary heads.
“About twenty,” the steward said finally.
“And you knew them all?”
“Oh yes, they’re all regulars. This is a members-only club, you see – very strict, the management is about that – so we don’t get any of what you might call passin’ trade.”
Woodend nodded. “When you get time, could you jot down the names of all the people you remember?”
“Sure,” the barman agreed.
“Fred Foley was around as well, wasn’t he?” Chatterton asked, ignoring Woodend’s disapproving look.
“Yes, he was around,” Tony readily agreed. “Drunk as a lord he was, much the same as usual. I don’t know where he gets the money from for booze. He certainly doesn’t seem to have it to spend on anythin’ else. He can’t have seen a bar of soap for months, his clothes are so worn they’re almost fallin’ off him, an’ that dog of his always looks half starved.”
“Oh, so Fred Foley’s got a dog, has he?” Woodend said, suddenly sounding interested.
“He has. It’s a bit of a mutt, but even though he doesn’t feed it enough, I’d say he’s quite fond of it.”
“An’ you haven’t seen sight nor sound of this mutt since the night of the murder?”
“No.”
Woodend turned to Chatterton. “Fred Foley’s a hopeless drunk with no money an’ very little initiative. In addition, he’s saddled with a dog. An’ you still haven’t found him. Now why do you think that is?”
“Perhaps he’s just been very lucky so far,” Tim Chatterton said, unconvincingly.
“Perhaps he has,” Woodend agreed. He took another sip of his beer. It seemed to be getting better with every mouthful. “Was Schultz drinkin’ alone?” he asked the bar steward.
Tony shook his head. “No. He was talkin’ to Mr Hailsham from the main works.”
“An’ who’s he when he’s at home?”
“The personnel manager.”
“Were they sittin’ at one of the tables?”
“No, they were standin’ at the bar. Mr Hailsham likes to do that. I expect he thinks it gives him the common touch.”
Woodend made a mental note of the edge of dislike in the steward’s voice, then said, “So if they were standin’ at the bar, you’ll have heard what they were talkin’ about, won’t you?”
“I . . . er . . . try not to listen to other people’s private conversations,” the steward said, warily.
Woodend smiled. “Come off it, lad. There’s barmen who listen an’ barmen who don’t. You’ve got the look of a feller who regards eavesdroppin’ as one of the perks of the job.”
Tony looked sheepish. “Well, maybe I did hear a bit of what they were talkin’ about – accidentally like.”
“An’ what were they sayin’?”
“Well, they started out by talkin’ about jobs. Mr Schultz said he hadn’t been here long enough to make any definite recommendations quite yet, but he’d already seen enough to be able to tell that somethin’ would have to be done to make the company leaner.”
“An’ what do you think he meant by that?”
“Job losses, of course. He said that if he had his way, there’d be a fair number of people on this very park who’d soon find themselves lookin’ for some other employment.”
“Did anyone else hear thi
s?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I shouldn’t be surprised if they did. Mr Schultz had had a few drinks, you see, an’ he was talkin’ rather loud. Anyway, after that Mr Hailsham started talkin’ about the Dark Lady.”
“The dark what?”
“The Dark Lady,” Inspector Chatterton said. “It’s a local legend. Nothing but a load of rubbish in my opinion.”
“You may scoff, Mr Chatterton, but there’s plenty of people round here as would disagree with you about it bein’ rubbish,” the barman said, slightly disapprovingly.
Chatterton smiled condescendingly. “Have you ever seen her yourself, Tony?” he asked.
“N . . . no,” the bar steward admitted reluctantly. “But I know a fair number of fellers who have.”
“There’s some men who’ll see anything and everything when they’ve got a few pints swilling around inside them,” Chatterton countered.
“I’m gettin’ a bit lost here,” Woodend said. “Who or what is this ‘Dark Lady’ exactly?”
“Her real name was Lady Caroline Sutton,” the steward said. “She lived in this very house over a hundred years ago. Do you want to hear the whole story, Chief Inspector?”
“Aye, why not?” Woodend said. “I like to take in a bit of local colour once in a while.”
“Lady Caroline was married to Sir Richard Sutton,” Tony said, lowering his voice as if he were about to reveal the latest bit of scandal. “Well, he were a rum bugger, by all accounts. There wasn’t a woman in the whole area that was safe when he was around – an’ I’m talkin’ about anybody, from high-class ladies to servin’ wenches, with a few doctors’ and clergymen’s daughters thrown in for good measure. For years his wife knew absolutely nothin’ about it, but finally she found out, like them as are bein’ deceived usually do. As you can imagine, it came as a terrible shock to her, because she was still in love with him you see, an’ as far as she’d known up to then, he was still in love with her. An’ on top of that there was the humiliation of knowin’ that all her so-called friends were laughin’ at her behind her back.”
“Stop embroidering and get to the bloody point, Tony,” Chatterton said impatiently.
“If I’m tellin’ the story, then I’ll tell it proper,” the bar steward said. “Now where was I?”
“She realised that all her so-called friends were secretly laughin’ at her,” Woodend prompted.
“That’s right,” Tony agreed. “She had been a very sociable sort of woman – well, your posh people were in them days, weren’t they? – but she stopped receivin’ visitors altogether. She’d stay locked in her bedroom all day, with the shutters down. But at night . . .” His voice assumed a thrilling quality. “. . . at night, when everybody else was sound asleep, she’d get on her big black horse and ride around the country lanes for hours an’ hours. Then one night the strain of bein’ a laughin’ stock must have got too much for her. When she got back from her ride, she went straight up to her husband’s bedroom – they weren’t sleepin’ together by then, of course – and slit his throat from ear to ear while he slept. Then she went down to the stables an’ hung herself from the main beam.”
“And if you’ll believe that, you’ll believe anything,” Inspector Chatterton said mockingly.
“She still roams the lanes at night, her an’ her big black horse,” Tony continued, ignoring the interruption. “Not every night, of course – only when there’s about to be a death in the district.”
“People die all the time,” Chatterton said. “It’s got absolutely nothing to do with ghostly figures on horseback.”
“An’ the last time she appeared was the night before the German feller got himself killed,” Tony said triumphantly.
“Well, there you are, sir,” Chatterton said to Woodend. “Track down this ghost, and you’ll have your murderer.”
“She doesn’t cause the deaths,” Tony said sulkily. “She only . . . what do you call it . . . predicts them.”
Woodend drained the rest of his pint. “I shall be wantin’ to see this Hailsham feller from personnel as soon as possible,” he told Chatterton. “Can you arrange that for me, Tim?”
“Yes, sir.”
“An’ while we’re waitin’ for him to turn up, what I think I’d like to do is go an’ take a look at the room in which the late Herr Schultz had been livin’ for the last few weeks.”
Gerhard Schultz’s bedroom was spacious and had a fine view over the part of the park which contained chestnut trees rather than huts. The dead man had been only in temporary residence, but he must have been comfortable enough, because in addition to the bed there was a desk, a sofa, a refrigerator, and a bookcase.
Woodend headed for the bookcase first, and Bob Rutter, who’d placed a private bet with himself that that was just what his boss would do, made no effort to hide his grin.
“Accordin’ to young Chatteron, the room’s already been gone over thoroughly by forensics,” Woodend said, “so we’ve no need to pussyfoot around.” He ran his eyes over the books. “A whole stack of stuff on management techniques – or to put it another way, how to squeeze the last drop of sweat out of your underpaid workforce,” he grunted. “A few travel books – but all about travellin’ in England. I wonder why that is. Ay up, what’s this? The Old Curiosity Shop! An’ A Tale of Two Cities!”
Rutter let out a loud stage groan. “Not another Dickens fan, for God’s sake!” he said.
“There’s more of us about than you’d think,” Woodend told him. “He’s got some other good stuff as well. George Eliot, Jane Austen. The Brontës. I’ll say this much for him – whatever he was like as a manager, when it came to literature the feller had taste.”
He pulled The Old Curiosity Shop out of the bookcase, examined it, frowned, replaced it, and repeated the process with another three books.
“Never been read,” he said in disgust. “Now that really is acrime – havin’ books like these an’ never even dippin’ into them.” “So why do you think he bought them?” Bob Rutter asked.
“For show?”
“How do you mean?”
“To demonstrate how English he’d become.”
“Either that or he was one of these fellers who are always meanin’ to improve their minds but never quite get round to it,” Woodend said. “Let’s see what else we can find, shall we?”
The wardrobe was built into the wall. Woodend opened the door. Hanging at the left-hand side were several suits, all of them in dark colours, and all made of wool. Next to them were a dozen white shirts. Finally, at the right-hand end of the rail were three sports jackets and matching pairs of trousers. There were six pairs of lace-up shoes – one pair for golf – all placed so that they were exactly parallel to the sides of the wardrobe. In the tie rack were eight ties in muted shades.
“Impressions, Sergeant?” Woodend asked.
“The man doesn’t appear to have been much of a snappy dresser, does he?” Rutter replied.
“No,” Woodend agreed. “I’d say that, even for a senior manager, he was conservative. Anythin’ else?”
“Very organised. Very military.”
“Aye,” Woodend said. “I bet he wore them suits of his in strict rotation. Let’s see what we can find in the desk.
The desk had two drawers. In the top one were the standard elements of office stationery – paper clips, a hole puncher, a stapler, writing paper and several pencils. As with the shoes, they seemed not to have been put in there haphazardly, but to have been carefully arranged.
In the second drawer they found Gerhard Schultz’s correspondence. There was a letter from a building society, which said that as soon as he’d found a house to his liking, he should apply for a loan, which the writer thought he would have no difficulty in obtaining. There were several invoices, marked ‘paid’, and a note from Schultz’s bank manager in Hereford informing him that, as per his instructions, his account had now been transferred to the Maltham branch.
Woodend put the letters back in th
e drawer, and sighed. “What’s missin’?” he asked his sergeant.
“Photographs, souvenirs, any kind of memento,” Rutter said without hesitation.
“Exactly,” Woodend agreed. “Remember when we searched Conroy’s flat in the Swann’s Lake case? We came out of that with a pretty fair picture of what he was like – or, at least, what he was tryin’ to become. Here, we’ve got absolutely nothin’. It’s almost as if this feller was doin’ his level best to submerge his personality.”
“Or maybe Germans are just like that,” Rutter suggested.
“Aye,” Woodend said sourly. “They’ve all got two heads, an’ all. Here’s a bit of advice for you, lad. You’re a good bobbie already – you wouldn’t still be workin’ with me if you weren’t – but if you’re ever goin’ to be a great bobbie, then you’re goin’ to have to stop lookin’ for easy answers. Human bein’s are a complicated lot of buggers, even the ones that look simple.”
“Point taken, sir.”
Woodend walked over to the bookcase, pulled out the copy of The Old Curiosity Shop again, and handed it to his sergeant. “Dip into this when you’ve got the chance, Bob,” he said. “You can learn a lot about human nature from readin’ Charles Dickens.”
Three
Woodend was halfway down his second pint when the door of the Westbury Social Club bar opened, and a man entered the room. The new arrival was in his early forties, had short black hair and sported a large handlebar moustache. He crossed the room to the bar with the brisk strides of someone who had taken his military training very seriously indeed.
“Group Captain Simon Hailsham at your service,” he said, holding out his hand to Woodend.
“Charlie Woodend,” the chief inspector replied. “Are you still in the airforce, Group Captain? I could have sworn that somebody or other told me you were the personnel manager at British Chemical Industries.”
“So I am,” Hailsham agreed. “Using the old title is a bit of a bad habit, I suppose, but it’s a hard one to break.”
The Dark Lady Page 3
