by J F Straker
‘Why should he? Book or no book, he was certainly looking for Cluster, and the pubs and the farm would be places to try. Shannon says he was in the barn with a woman. It’s highly probable the woman was Mrs C; and it could be they were in the cottage, not the barn. Shannon knew Miss Mytton was away, knew where the key was kept, knew where to find a handy weapon. And both he and the woman had cause to hate Cluster.’ Pitt rubbed his eyes. They were red from lack of sleep. ‘But don’t ask me how Cluster also happened to be there, or why it was he who was killed and not Shannon. I don’t know, and neither do you.’
This last assumption rattled the sergeant.
‘I could make a guess,’ he said. ‘Cluster left the pub at nine-fifteen. Where he went we don’t know, but he might have seen his wife crossing the fields to the Hall and followed her. It would puzzle him when she went into the cottage; he didn’t know Miss Mytton was away. But he hung around for a while; and then something — Shannon’s voice, perhaps, made him suspicious, and he went in and found them together in the bedroom. There was a fight, and Mrs Cluster, frightened for her lover’s safety, ran downstairs to look for a weapon. She found the knife on the dresser, went back to the bedroom, and stabbed her husband while the two men were struggling.’
The inspector considered this.
‘Very creditable,’ he said eventually. ‘Probably completely off the target, but at least it makes sense. And now let’s get down to business.’
Norris-Kerr stared at him. Bed suddenly seemed a long way off. ‘Business? What have we been doing all this time, I’d like to know?’
‘Guessing,’ Pitt told him. ‘It’s a fascinating pastime, but it doesn’t put criminals in the dock. Only honest slogging can do that.’ He smiled wearily, and slapped his notebook. ‘Let’s plan the slogging for tomorrow, shall we?’
Chapter Four
Wednesday, November 16
With a fluttering heart Miss Justin stood at the window of her sitting-room and watched her gardener lazily turn over the soil in the herbaceous border. It was one thing for Emily to proclaim airily that she must speak to William, but it was quite another to embark on the actual speaking. For one reason or another she had done no more than pass the time of day with him since the night of the murder, and yet on those brief encounters she had had the unpleasant sensation that there was something strange in his manner. He had not shunned her, but the broad familiarity with which he normally greeted her (and of which Emily so strongly disapproved) had been replaced by curt monosyllables and a furtive, questioning look. Remembering that look now, a tingling shiver of fear trickled down Miss Justin’s spine and into her legs, and she clutched at the window-sill for support.
William threw the fork into the soft soil and straightened up, arching his back. As he fumbled for a cigarette he saw his employer watching him through the window, but he gave her neither smile nor wave in recognition. He lit his cigarette, staring back at her through narrowed eyes as he drew the smoke down into his lungs, and then bent again to the fork.
Miss Justin did not like it at all. There’s something wrong, she told herself unhappily; something very wrong. And the knowledge of what that something might be did nothing to dispel her fears. Yet she had to speak to him. Emily would never forgive her if she did not, and for her own peace of mind she had to know the answers.
As she crossed the carpet with reluctant feet she saw Matt’s photograph on the small table by the door, and paused to pick it up. He was a good-looking man in the early thirties, with serene, honest eyes set in a rugged square of a face. Miss Justin smiled back at him fondly, put the photograph down, and walked from the room with more firmness in her step.
William saw her coming. He stopped digging and stood with one foot resting on the shoulder of the fork, the stub of his cigarette, now dead, still in his mouth. His eyes watched her steadily.
Miss Justin went into battle with no preliminary skirmish. She knew that battle might never be joined if she hesitated.
‘I want to speak to you, William,’ she said. Her voice was steady, but shriller than usual.
‘You do, Miss Justin?’ He put a little more of his weight on the fork, and it sank deeper into the soil. ‘Well, I’m listening.’
She took a verbal leap. ‘It’s about a certain young lady. I happen to know you’ve been meeting her, William. Secretly. At night.’
Pauses punctuated the last few words. She added them because the silence with which he greeted her first statement unnerved her. She felt she had to keep talking until he showed some reaction.
He took the cigarette stub from his mouth and threw it away.
‘Oh!’ He sounded more surprised than disturbed.
‘Yes. Don’t think I’ve been spying on you,’ she added hastily. ‘I discovered it quite by accident. But you can see what a difficult position it puts me in.’
‘No, I can’t say I do,’ he said calmly.
‘Well, I — I feel it’s information I ought not to keep to myself. Not under the circumstances.’
He lit another cigarette before replying.
‘Now let’s get this straight, Miss Justin. You say you picked this up by accident. Okay. I daresay you disapprove; but what business is it of yours anyway?’ He blew out a thick cloud of smoke, ejecting it upwards by sticking out his lower lip. ‘Knowing who she is, you’ll appreciate that we don’t want our private affairs broadcast round the village.’ There was an edge to his voice as he added. ‘You take my advice, miss, and keep it to yourself. There’s bound to be trouble if you don’t. You know that.’
She did know it. But, used as she was to his familiarity, this sounded more like a threat than a warning, and it made her hesitate. Yet she could not leave it there. She had to go on.
‘That’s all very well, William,’ she said. ‘Under normal circumstances I would never think of interfering in your private affairs. But these aren’t normal circumstances, are they? I mean — well, there’s the murder.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Ah! The murder. And how does that come into it?’
Miss Justin took the plunge. ‘You were there with her on Sunday evening,’ she said, her voice wavering a little. ‘Not in the cottage, perhaps, but certainly in its vicinity. And there’s no point in denying it, William, because I know.’
She waited almost breathlessly for his reply. But when it came it was not what she had expected.
‘Good Lord! You’re not by any chance accusing me of murdering Cluster, are you?’
Miss Justin inhaled a deep draught of the damp November air. He had told her all she wanted to know.
‘Of course not,’ she said with conviction, a new briskness to her tone. ‘But the police would expect you to come forward. If you don’t, and if they find out later that you were there, it could be most unpleasant for you.’ She paused. ‘You might know something that would help them in their inquiries, you see.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘But I suppose it can’t do any harm to tell them I was there. Better to come from me than someone else.’ For the first time he smiled. ‘I told them I was out poaching, but I don’t think they believed me.’
‘That’s all the more reason for telling them the truth, isn’t it?’
He nodded. Then the smile was replaced by a frown. ‘I’ll have to speak to her first; she may not take kindly to the idea. Have to try a spot of persuasion. I’m meeting her tonight.’
Miss Justin was slightly shocked at the calmness with which he volunteered that last piece of information. But she did not reproach him. She even managed a smile as she said, without quite knowing what she meant, ‘Good. I’m sure that will be best.’
‘You’ll keep this to yourself? I don’t want others to know. Not until they have to.’
‘I won’t breathe a word,’ she assured him.
It seemed unwise, when she had achieved so much, to destroy his confidence by telling him that Emily was already in the secret.
*
‘I shouldn�
�t be surprised if we never know who killed him,’ Miss Mytton said. ‘The inspector is quite a nice man, and I’m sure he’s doing his best. But it isn’t enough. He just hasn’t a clue.’
‘He has one, for what it’s worth,’ Mace told her. ‘He got it from Sybil.’
‘Sybil? Don’t tell me she’s involved!’
‘Not exactly. But she saw—’ He paused, realizing that Julia would be furious at the disclosure — and to Emily Mytton of all people. ‘I don’t think I should tell you,’ he said lamely.
‘It’s the last time I set foot in this office if you don’t,’ she retorted. She gazed out of the dirty casement windows to the yard below, with a rubbish tip beyond and the railway in the distance. ‘And that would be no hardship, I can assure you. Why on earth do you stay here? It shouldn’t be difficult to find a more salubrious neighbourhood. With a view like that it’s a wonder you manage to keep any clients at all.’
Mace smiled. ‘You’d better ask old Ganton that. I did, once. His answer was that people come here to talk business, not to admire the view.’
‘Putting the junior partner in his place, eh? But don’t try to side-track me.’ Miss Mytton had forgotten that it was she who had introduced the diversion. ‘Tell me what Sybil saw. I’ve a right to know if anyone has. Didn’t the man choose my bed in which to get himself murdered?’
‘It’s Julia who deters me, not the police,’ Mace confessed. ‘She’s horrified at the possibility of Sybil being involved as a witness. However, as I can’t afford to lose a good client—’
He told her of Sybil’s statement to the police. Miss Mytton gave an undignified whoop of triumph.
‘I knew it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was positive that woman was mixed up in it somehow.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry for George Colling. Although when one reflects on the way she has behaved, not only now but in the past, I can’t help thinking he’ll be a lot better off without her.’
‘I’m too much in the dark to theorize,’ Mace said. ‘But I understand Colling is the number one suspect in the village.’
‘We all have our candidates for that doubtful prerogative, I expect,’ said Miss Mytton. ‘Personally I favour Clara’s gardener. One can make out a strong case against him. What you’ve just told me makes it even stronger.’
Mace was intrigued. ‘How about a quid pro quo?’ he suggested. ‘Clara’s gardener for my Sybil?’
Nothing loth, Miss Mytton complied. ‘Clara was to talk to William this morning,’ she concluded, looking at her watch. ‘I’m meeting her for coffee at Blake’s in half an hour, and I must admit I’m curious to know what transpired.’
‘So am I,’ Mace said. ‘But unfortunately my curiosity will have to go unsatisfied. There’s a client waiting to see me in the other office.’
Miss Mytton was also due for a disappointment. As she listened to Miss Justin it seemed to her that the latter’s talk with William had produced no more than they already knew or suspected — that William had been in the vicinity of the cottage with Gwendoline Colling on Sunday night. And what Edward Mace had told her confirmed that.
‘You can be quite sure of one thing, Emily. William had absolutely nothing to do with the murder,’ Miss Justin concluded earnestly.
Miss Mytton shrugged her rather heavy shoulders. She could be sure of nothing of the sort.
‘William or no William, Gwen Colling certainly had,’ she said. ‘Only a woman could have enticed Cluster to the cottage. Perhaps William had succeeded him in her affection (I doubt if affection is the right word), and she decided to get rid of him. But I suspect you’ve again been taken in by that gardener of yours, Clara. It’s more likely that William found Cluster and Gwen together and summarily disposed of his rival. That’s what I thought yesterday, and I still think it today.’
‘You’re wrong, Emily. I know you are. And provided Mrs Colling agrees to William telling the truth you’ll see I’m right.’
‘And if she doesn’t? What then?’
But that was a question Miss Justin could not answer.
Miss Mytton had taken the bus to Tanbury, intending to return with her friend. But Miss Justin had had trouble with the car on the way in, and when they called at the garage to collect it they learned that it would not be ready until late in the afternoon.
‘I can’t hang around Tanbury all day,’ Miss Mytton said. ‘I’m a working woman. Are you coming back on the bus, Clara, or shall I leave you here?’
Miss Justin decided to take the bus. And it was at the bus stop that Colonel Gresham saw them and steered his ancient Morris to the kerb. ‘Belinda’s reasonably safe,’ he assured them cheerfully, untying the string that held the near-side door in position. ‘She has her off days, of course, but so far this hasn’t been one of them.’
Belinda’s engine was noisy. She made heavy weather of the long climb out of Tanbury, wheezing and groaning and hiccupping her way up it in low gear, with the Colonel swaying backwards and forwards to urge her on.
‘Made it!’ he exclaimed gleefully, panting a little from his exertions as he changed into top gear. ‘She never likes that damned hill. I always have to coax her up it.’
Gallantry forbade the explanation that the additional weight of the two ladies had taxed Belinda to the utmost.
‘You should try the road through Little Blazing,’ Miss Justin suggested. ‘It’s more level, although I believe it’s slightly longer. William — my gardener — always comes that way on his bicycle.’
It was inevitable that they should talk of the murder. Miss Mytton had agreed with her friend that they must keep their discoveries to themselves until they were ready to disclose them to the police. But when the Colonel gave it as his opinion that they need look no further than Tom Shannon for the murderer it was too much for her discretion.
‘Tom Shannon indeed!’ She almost vibrated with indignation at this insult to her favourite. ‘It may interest you to know (though this is strictly between ourselves) that Mrs Colling at least had a hand in it. I’m not saying she actually committed the murder, but she was certainly there at the time. We know that for a fact.’
‘You do?’ The Colonel was impressed.
‘Yes. And so was William Bright, Clara’s gardener. She won’t believe he killed Cluster, but I’m not so sure.’
An angry snort from the rear seat expressed Miss Justin’s opinion of this betrayal of confidence. What right had Emily to disregard their agreement? It was just like Emily, she thought, to try and run the murder as she ran the village. One would think it had been committed solely for her benefit!
‘Do the police know about this?’ asked the Colonel.
‘Not yet. William has told Miss Justin he would prefer to make a statement to them himself.’
‘And when’s he going to do that?’
‘Tomorrow morning, I hope,’ said Miss Mytton.
‘Tomorrow evening,’ snapped Miss Justin. Since she was now convinced that William knew nothing of the murder it did not seem to matter when he talked to the police. Emily was being altogether too autocratic. ‘If at all. You seem to have forgotten, Emily, that Mrs Colling has the last word so far as William is concerned. You are trying to arrange something which is outside your control.’
It was Miss Mytton’s turn to be annoyed. Colonel Gresham pressed down on the accelerator, pushing Belinda to her limit. When ladies started arguing — and particularly such formidable antagonists as these — it was the Colonel’s policy to be some place else.
*
Archie Mace watched with interest as the sergeant went from house to house along the London Road. The interviews were brief and took place on the doorstep; but Archie, despite his curiosity, deemed it wiser to stay out of earshot. He was anxious that the sergeant should not note his presence and send him packing; only when the man left the last house before the church and seated himself on the low stone wall did Archie decide that the moment had come. Autograph book in hand, he stood in front of the detective and beamed at him engagingly.
‘You’re a detective-sergeant, aren’t you?’ he asked.
The man frowned. ‘Run along, sonny,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m busy.’
‘You’ve got red hair like my father said,’ the boy persisted. ‘And you don’t live here, do you? I bet you are the sergeant.’
Norris-Kerr smiled and capitulated. ‘Okay, I’m the sergeant. Who are you?’
‘Archie Mace. My father’s a solicitor.’
The other nodded. ‘I’ve met your parents. Your sister too.’
‘Sybil? She stinks.’ Archie proffered the book for signature. He had no intention of being side-tracked. ‘Will you write your name on that page, please? I want them all together.’
‘All what together?’
‘Everyone who had anything to do with the murder, of course.’
The sergeant signed on the strident yellow page.
‘Thanks.’ The boy inspected the bold signature with approval. ‘I chose that page (I’d have preferred a red one, really) because Sybil wrote her name there when she gave me the book, and I knew she wouldn’t do it again. She’s a pig. I got the Hoopers’ this morning. I tried to get Old Mother Mittens’s too, but she was out.’ He closed the book and tucked it under his arm. ‘It’s a pity I didn’t get Mr Cluster’s before he was killed, but we didn’t really know him, you see. He never came to our house.’ He sighed. ‘I wish I’d thought of it, though. I mean, it’ll never be really complete without him, will it?’
‘Don’t let it get you down,’ Norris-Kerr said. ‘One can’t be expected to foretell the future.’
‘No.’ Archie opened the book again at the yellow page, and scanned it critically. ‘Have I left anyone else out? Anyone important, I mean.’
‘I don’t know. Let’s have a look.’
He had not paid much attention before to the names written on the page. But looking at them now he was surprised. Some he had expected, but not others.
‘Is all this lot involved?’ he said. ‘It looks like half the village.’
‘There’s a few I’m not quite sure about,’ the boy admitted. ‘That’s why they’re in pencil, so’s I can rub them out.’
