by Faith Martin
Rachel smiled an acknowledgement, but the aura of defeat and exhaustion that hovered around her was almost a visible thing.
‘Where did you walk?’ Hillary prompted, just to get her talking again.
‘Oh, just down to the cow meadow at the end of the village. There’s a little footpath to the spinney. I didn’t go through the trees but went around them and then came back. I must have got back to the house about ten past ten, or something like that.’
Hillary nodded.
‘Did you notice anything odd, or different? Any strange cars parked in the hamlet, or strangers walking about?’
‘No. Nothing like that. It was all very quiet.’
‘What did you do then?’
Rachel Warner sighed, and two fresh tears rolled down her face unchecked. ‘I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I saw as I went past that Dad wasn’t in the allotments, so I guessed he was out back in the garden.’
‘The allotments?’ Hillary put in quietly.
‘Yes. Just over the road.’ She gestured vaguely through the window. ‘Nearly everybody in The Knott has one. To start with, when my Dad was young, it was a necessity — to feed the big families they had then and all that. Nobody had the kind of money they have nowadays. But just recently, what with all the gardening programmes on telly, and the fad for organic food and what have you, all the incomers and second-homers wanted allotments too. Dad always had two chains.’
‘I see. Sorry to interrupt. Go on, you came home and put the kettle on?’
‘Right. Yes. I made the mugs of tea and took them both outside. I was going to sit at the table, and maybe later on give Dad a hand tying up the strings of shallots he’d got drying in the shed.’
She looked down at her hands and frowned. ‘Dad always pickled his own onions. I don’t know what I’ll do with them all now.’ She shook her head, as if she knew that she was straying from the point, and looked briefly up at Hillary. Her face had a blank, lost look, and Hillary realised that she’d lost the thread of what she’d been saying. Shock was catching up with her. This preliminary interview would have to be finished quickly. And then, no matter what Rachel said, Hillary was going to get Barrington to ask a doctor to come and look at her.
‘You often helped your father in the garden?’ Hillary asked curiously, thinking of the spade and fingerprints.
‘Used to,’ Rachel said without expression. ‘Not so much nowadays.’
So if we find her prints on the spade it won’t mean a damned thing, Hillary thought. Most killers now knew enough to wear gloves anyway.
‘I took the mugs outside and saw him lying there,’ Rachel ploughed on, obviously wanting to get this second telling over and done with. ‘I thought at first he’d just tripped over. I think I may even have called out something funny to him. You know, something like, “You’ll have to take more water with it next time, Dad,” or something like that. You know how you do.’
She looked at Hillary helplessly, and Hillary nodded.
‘But he didn’t move or get up so I went over and . . . well . . . saw him. His head like it was. All the blood on the spade. I sort of backed away and came back inside. I don’t really know what I did next, to be honest.’ Rachel gave a dry laugh. ‘One minute I was outside, the next minute I was in the kitchen, still holding the mugs of tea.’
Rachel took a deep, heaving breath, and looked down at her hands. ‘Then I seemed to get my head into gear and came in here to telephone you.’ She nodded across at the telephone on a small three-legged table in the corner. ‘Then I sat down here and waited. You came. And that’s it.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Thank you, that’s all very clear. Now, what can you tell me about your father?’
‘Dad?’ She looked surprised, her head lifting once again to the policewoman’s face. ‘What about him?’
‘Was he popular? Did the people in the village like him? Had he lived here long?’
‘Oh yes, all his life. He was born in The Knott, as was Granddad before him. He still owns Granddad’s cottage — it’s the last one on the way out the other side of the village. Granddad left it to him when he died. Dad bought this place for himself when he got married to my mother.’
‘Your mother’s dead?’
‘No. She left when I was thirteen. Married some other bloke up north. She never kept in touch,’ Rachel told her impassively.
Hillary noticed her reaction, but didn’t want to push it. Not at this stage. The woman was exhausted and flagging fast.
‘Your father didn’t remarry?’
Rachel Warner gave a bark of laughter. ‘Not him. He said once bitten, twice shy. Besides . . .’ She blinked, then shrugged. ‘Dad lived for his garden anyway. That and the annual seven-village flower show.’
Again, Hillary didn’t miss that tell-tale word: besides. Besides what? She’d been going to say something, then caught herself and stopped. At some point, Hillary would have to find out what, but not now.
Instead, Hillary looked outside the window and smiled. ‘Yes, I could tell at once that a serious gardener lived here.’
‘That was Dad all right. I’ve never had to buy fruit and veg for all the years I’ve lived here. It came in handy, that, what with the grocery bills and the cost of food just lately. I’ll give him that. I’ve had to give up work recently, and the cost of raising two young ones . . .’ Again she trailed off, too exhausted to finish the sentence.
Hillary nodded.
‘So everybody liked your father?’
‘Yes. Well, apart from his rivals,’ Rachel said, making Keith Barrington nearly fall off his chair.
Hillary smiled, not quite so taken aback. ‘You mean at the flower show?’ she asked knowingly. Her own father had been a bit of an aficionado of flower shows, and she knew how sharp the so-called ‘friendly’ competition could be.
Rachel nodded. ‘The competition is always cut-throat. As the name suggests, there’s seven villages involved, and every year it’s held at one of them, on a rota basis. Last year it was in Little Tew. The marrow’s the really hot competition, of course, but the tallest sunflower, the tomatoes, runner beans and asparagus are also war zones. The year before last there was a big scandal over alleged cheating in the gooseberry section. The ructions can still be felt to this day.’
Hillary smiled widely. ‘Your father was a regular winner?’
‘Oh yes. Flowers too. His dahlias and sweet peas nearly always brought home the silverware.’
‘Did your father seem worried this morning, or distracted, anything like that?’
‘No. He was just the same as ever.’
‘Was he expecting visitors, do you know?’
‘No. Well, if he was, he never said.’
‘And when you came back to the house after your walk, did you notice anything different? Anything moved or taken?’
‘No, nothing’s been stolen,’ Rachel said. ‘Your constable there asked me to check, and I haven’t found anything missing. Although Dad’s watch and the gold signet ring he wore aren’t on his bedside table, so I’m pretty sure he must have been wearing them.’
Hillary caught Barrington’s eye. She hadn’t inspected the corpse all that thoroughly, but she was fairly sure the victim’s wrist and fingers had been bare. Barrington nodded and underlined something in his notebook. He would be sure to check.
‘I see. Well, that’s all for the moment, Mrs Warner. Are you sure you don’t want me to get in touch with anyone to come and be with you?’
‘No thanks, I’m better on my own.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Well, we’ll be around for quite some time to come yet, and I’m afraid that at some point a thorough search of the house will have to be made. Do we have your permission?’
‘Of course. Do what you like,’ Rachel Warner said listlessly.
Hillary nodded and rose, and Barrington followed her out. Outside, she saw that Steven Partridge had finished his examination of the body and was about to leave.
She beckoned hi
m over. ‘Steven, I know this isn’t in your remit, but I’d feel better if you’d just run your professional eye over the daughter inside.’
Steven Partridge sighed, but nodded. ‘Probably just shock. I don’t have anything to give her, but I can recommend hot sweet tea and bed rest.’
Hillary didn’t think that that was somehow going to cut it, but she knew better than to argue with a medical man. When he’d gone inside, she turned to the young redhead and sighed.
‘All right, Keith. Find out the name of Mr Philpott’s solicitor, and find out the terms of his will. Mrs Warner didn’t mention any siblings, so I think we’ll find that she’ll inherit everything, but it needs to be checked. Then get on to the schools and find out what time Mrs Warner arrived with the two kids, and the time she left the last school.’
‘You don’t suspect her, do you, guv?’ Barrington asked, surprised.
‘Not particularly. But confirmation is everything in this game, Constable,’ she informed him flatly. ‘Remember that.’
Barrington flushed, and made another mental note. He watched her walk back down the garden towards the victim, his eyes anxious. It was obvious she was still feeling down, and he only hoped that she hadn’t come back to work too soon. He felt a chill crawl down his spine at the thought that she might not be up to the job in hand, and he quickly chased the treacherous notion out of his head.
It was a stupid idea anyway.
Straightening his shoulders, he set about tackling his to-do list.
CHAPTER THREE
Hillary Greene saw the mortuary van arrive, and stood by as the body was loaded up and taken away. A blackbird sang in an apple tree laden with burgeoning fruit, and a brilliantly coloured red admiral butterfly flittered past her and landed on a patch of blue speedwell flowering amid the grass on the path in front of her. It didn’t seem a day for death, somehow, but death had come nevertheless.
She sighed and turned away. Returning to the lane outside, she saw that Gemma had started her enquiries with the houses farthest north, which meant that she’d probably told Frank to take those to the south. As far as Hillary could see, the entire hamlet consisted of just this one street, and the cottages that lined it. There was no sign of a pub, or a church, or, of course, that rarity of rarities nowadays, a village shop.
With a sigh she decided to take the house next door on the left. This house was built of red brick, which had mellowed to pink over the ages, and had neatly trimmed but uninspired lawns at the front and side. There was no answer to her knocking. She then tried the neighbour on the other side, and as she was walking up the flagged path, the front door of the house opened even before she reached it. An old lady with a mop of curly white hair stood there anxiously, looking at her out of wide watery-blue eyes.
‘Don’t say she’s gone already,’ the old woman said bluntly.
Hillary blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Rachel. She isn’t dead is she?’
‘No, Mrs . . . er . . . ?’
‘Mobbs. Mabel Mobbs. What’s going on next door then?’ she asked, just as bluntly. She peered at Hillary’s card short-sightedly when Hillary introduced herself.
‘Police?’ Mabel Mobbs repeated, her voice slightly raised in that scandalized squeak so often found among her generation. ‘Trouble?’ she asked avidly.
Hillary smiled. ‘Mind if I come in?’
‘Course not, chick, come on in. I’ll put the kettle on. Go on through to the back there.’ Hillary followed her pointing finger to a small, modern-looking space at the rear of the cottage. She pulled out one of the two chairs set at a small round table and, unasked, took a seat.
‘Burglary is it?’ Mabel asked chattily, filling the kettle and reaching up for the tea bags. ‘Would you prefer coffee?’ she added, very much as an afterthought, and sniffed a little when Hillary admitted that she would. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach the back of the cupboard, and her hand came back holding a rather ancient-looking jar of Nescafé. She was barely five feet in height, Hillary guessed, and was wearing comfortable slippers and a floral dress, with a pinafore tied neatly over it.
‘Biscuit?’
‘No thanks,’ Hillary said automatically. She had what men called an hourglass figure, but she was constantly fighting to stop it running to fat.
‘Was anything really valuable taken?’ Mabel asked, standing by the kettle and watching it impatiently.
Hillary eyed her curiously. She was fairly sure that the old woman must have seen the mortuary van arrive, and the sombre cargo that it had taken away. A woman as inquisitive as this one must have had her nose pressed up against the windowpane for the past hour or more. So she knew that someone was dead, and her first words to Hillary indicated that her immediate thought had been that it was Rachel who had died. But since Hillary had told her that it wasn’t, that only left Edward Philpott or one of the children. And since she had probably seen Rachel take the children to school and come back, she must know that it was the old man who was dead.
So why this dogged insistence on pretending that it had been a burglary which had brought the police to her neighbour’s doorstep?
Hillary realised there was probably only one likely reason for this, and smiled gently.
‘I’m afraid it was more serious than a burglary, Mrs Mobbs,’ she said softly. ‘Were you very fond of your neighbour, Mr Philpott?’
With a small moan Mabel Mobbs sat down abruptly into the chair facing Hillary, her face collapsing. ‘It is Eddie then?’ she said mournfully, her eyes filling with tears.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Heart attack was it? Or a stroke? It’s usually one of them, isn’t it, when it comes on sudden like?’ She took a gulping breath and seemed to push the tears aside. ‘And it must have been sudden, mustn’t it, because he was fit as a fiddle and all right this morning.’
Hillary tensed slightly. ‘You saw him this morning?’
‘Oh aye. About quarter to seven it were.’
Hillary nodded towards the window. ‘You saw him in his garden, over the hedge?’
‘Oh no, chick. He was sitting where you are now. He’d brought me over some gooseberries. He knows I like my fruit pies.’
Hillary smiled. ‘So he was here at a quarter to seven. That’s rather early, isn’t it?’
Mabel Mobbs snorted. ‘Not for us old ones, chick. I’m up by six most mornings — especially in the summer. Don’t sleep much at night anyways, and once I’m awake and it’s light, I can’t lie in bed twiddling my thumbs. Drives me crackers. So I’m always up, and Eddie was the same. Course he liked to get an early start in the garden or the allotments, before the sun got really hot. This time of year it’s more mellow like, but still, old habits die hard. He was always up much the same time as me.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Have you been neighbours for long?’
‘Nigh on forty years it’d be now,’ Mabel said with pride. ‘Me and Fred moved in here when we got married in 1966.’
‘Is your husband in? Did he see Mr Philpott this morning too?’
‘Bless you, chick, I’ve been widowed for nearly thirty-two years now.’
Hillary shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. So, tell me about Mr Philpott. He called in to give you some gooseberries, you say?’
‘Aye, that was it. He popped in most days with something or other — leeks, sprouts, apples and whatnot. Really helped out with my pension I can tell you.’
‘He sounds like a good neighbour to have,’ Hillary agreed with a smile.
‘Oh he was. Always got a cheery word, old Eddie. Not a gloomy puss like some in the village. Even when his wife left him, he didn’t stay down for long.’
Hillary nodded. ‘So he got on well with everyone? He didn’t rub anyone up the wrong way, or get on the wrong side of people or anyone in particular — anything like that?’
‘No. Well, maybe Tom Cleaves,’ Mabel said uncertainly. ‘But Tom’s a bit of a stick anyway.’
Hillary lifted an eyebrow. ‘A stick?’<
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‘You know. A stuffed shirt. A bore, a stickler for petty rules, that sort of thing. Always bossing them around on the parish council and what have you. I can’t stand the man myself.’
‘And he and Mr Philpott didn’t get along?’
Mabel Mobbs looked at her sharply and with sudden alarm. ‘Here, don’t go reading anything into that! I’m not saying they were sworn enemies or had a blood feud going or anything daft like that. They were just rivals, that’s all.’
Hillary smiled. ‘Let me guess. The flower show?’
Mabel chuckled. ‘Started ever since Eddie won the marrow prize back in ’82 that Tom thought he had in the bag. They were both growing marrows on their allotments see, and Tom had one bigger than anything Eddie had, come the day of the flower show. But Eddie had been growing some in his back garden all secretive like — fed ’em up on all sorts of manure and compost and what have you, and grew this real whopper. Didn’t Tom kick up a fuss! Course, there was nothing in the rules about where your marrow was grown.’
Hillary frowned just slightly. ‘It sounds to me as if Mr Philpott deliberately wound him up.’
Mabel sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose he did, chick. But don’t go thinking he was malicious or anything like that. We were all glad that he did — Tom sometimes needs taking down a peg or two. But there’s no real harm in Eddie. Or wasn’t, I suppose I should say,’ she corrected herself heavily. ‘That man would have given you the shirt off his back if you needed it.’
Hillary nodded. ‘So, to get back to this morning. How did he seem?’
‘Well, not ill or anything, or I would have noticed,’ Mabel said at once. ‘He handed over the gooseberries and sat down and we had our usual cup of tea. I reminded him about the meeting this afternoon, and joshed him about forgetting it on purpose like, and I asked how his girl was, and he said all the usual things. Nothing out of the ordinary.’ Hillary waited until she’d finished, and then wondered where to start again.
‘His daughter?’ she asked curiously.
‘Rachel. She’s ill, isn’t she? You’ve seen her, haven’t you? I reckon it must be something serious, but Eddie would never talk about it much. I reckon he was just being a typical man. You know, stick your head in the sand and the problem will go away.’
