by Amy Myers
At last she managed to blurt it out. ‘I knew Geoffrey, but I can’t decide how much I need to tell the police – if anything. I don’t want to tell them everything because it doesn’t seem right, but I have to do so because this … this thing happened to him. Why? Did he really just try to fight off a thief? We don’t get many robberies in Monksford so it seems weird. I know I’ll have to talk to someone, but the police are formidable and family and friends can only offer sympathy. I need a bit more than that. Is it OK just to talk to you?’
Steady, I thought. ‘Yes, but you’ll have to tell the police everything in the end, and sooner is better than later. You can’t judge what might be material to Geoffrey’s murder, but they can. Officially I’m only following up the Golf theft.’
I couldn’t scare her by telling her that every detective in the Met and secret services would shortly be tearing her every word to minute shreds and reconstructing them, correctly or incorrectly. ‘In any case,’ I continued, ‘because I do work for the police, anything you tell me that might have the slightest bearing on Geoffrey Green has to be reported to them. Accepted?’
She pulled her face. ‘I’m not sure.’
I gritted my teeth. Upset or not, this was one obstinate woman. ‘I’ll make it easier. Will what you tell me make you a suspect in Green’s murder?’
That shook her rigid, and her expression grew even more mulish. ‘Of course not.’
Time for more pressure. ‘Someone in Monksford is going to know about your friendship with him, so if you haven’t spoken to the police, that’s black mark number one. They know about you.’
‘You’re making it sound as though I’m guilty until proved innocent.’
I’d lost her, so somehow I had to retreat to get through to her. I’d have to go back to that dangerous corner of my working for Brandon and try again. ‘Look, Wendy, you need to grieve for Geoffrey. When anyone dies there’s a heck of a lot of paperwork for the family to do. In Geoffrey’s case, think of talking to the police in that light. It’s necessary information to be filled in for them if his murderer is to be found. Only after that can you collapse and mourn properly. I don’t know how close you were –’ her blank face told me little – ‘but we all have to go through it sometime or other.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ She’d obviously had enough of this view of the Weald – or of me – because she turned round and marched onwards, a sturdy defiant figure betraying nothing.
I was getting fed up with this, especially as it was she who had wanted to see me. I couldn’t yet tell her about Green’s double life as Philip Moxton, so I had one last try with the cards in my hand. ‘Were you the only person in the village that Geoffrey was close to?’
To my relief, this seemed to work. ‘There was an old man he used to visit occasionally. Sam West at Fairview House.’
‘Any particular reason they were friendly?’
‘I don’t think they were close. Sam used to work in banking and accountancy and they both liked chess so that was probably the draw. Geoffrey was a financial adviser. And as for me, don’t get the wrong impression, Jack. Geoffrey and I were companions, not lovers. He was divorced way back, and I was widowed five years ago. He came into the café every so often and once in a while I’d invite him down to my beach hut on the coast, or he’d come over to my house.’
Gently does it. Go steady. ‘Did you visit his home?’
‘Very occasionally. He wasn’t retired and he travelled a lot on business, so he sometimes had to leave the café at short notice.’
‘To go to London?’ Or to Staveley House? I wondered.
‘He never told me. He was often gone for days.’
‘If he was in the financial world, what did you two have in common? Cars?’
‘Cars?’ She managed a laugh. ‘He wasn’t interested in cars and nor am I.’
‘Not even old ones?’ Like Packards, I wondered. Perhaps I’d been wrong and this wasn’t Philip Moxton we were talking about. It was certainly getting interesting. Even if he was leading a double life, Philip wouldn’t – surely couldn’t – suppress an interest in classic cars if he had one. But if he had not given any indication to Wendy that he was a car buff, how on earth did the Packard fit into the story?
‘I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘We both liked music. Oh – and yes – I forgot to tell you we went to Bayreuth for the Ring Cycle together. We went on a coach tour there.’
‘Lucky you.’ So surely this acquaintanceship must have been stronger than she’d indicated.
Wendy had a slight Wagnerian air about her in her determined sturdiness as she strode along the path. I could just see her as Brunhild, stirring up the Valkyrie sisterhood with a nice Nordic horned helmet. Not that this lady looked quite as tough as Brunhild but she might think she was. I wondered why, however, if the relationship was as she described, she had hesitated so much over talking about it.
‘How long had Geoffrey lived in the village?’ I prompted her.
‘I think he came about seven years ago. My husband was alive then, so I only got to know Geoffrey after I opened the café four years ago.’
I had to push the issue. ‘Forgive me for asking this, but though you might not have wanted more than companionship, did he?’
Wendy was ready for that. ‘No. The reason he came to my home on occasion was only because it was more private. He wasn’t a social mixer, and didn’t like the idea that his neighbours might keep track of his visitors and stir up gossip that we were a regular item. My home is a barn conversion on a farm on the outskirts of Monksford. We used to own the farm but when my husband died I sold it together with the farmhouse and kept the conversion for myself.’
‘Would you call Geoffrey a recluse?’ I couldn’t get to grips with Philip Moxton. What had made him tick? Women? Work? Fear? Isolation?
‘Of course not,’ she said surprised. ‘He travelled a lot, he got tired and he liked relaxing.’
‘Did he have children?’ Had Philip Moxton ever mentioned his son Barnabas to her? He hadn’t to me.
‘He never spoke of any, nor about his former wife. I don’t have children, so it didn’t occur to me to ask. We just accepted each other.’
There was a note of pride in her voice, but to me it struck an unreal note. Curiosity is a natural human failing or talent, according to how one looks at it. On the other hand a lack of curiosity might have been one of things that had attracted Philip to Wendy. She seemed self-sufficient and the last thing he would want was someone curiously asking questions about his past life.
Wendy noticed my lack of comment. ‘Are you implying Geoffrey might have been leading a double life with a wife and eight kids tucked away?’
‘No,’ I was able to say truthfully if misleadingly. Not unless eight kids belonged to that dreadful woman at Staveley House and she was not Miss but Mrs Moxton. Wendy’s question made me push harder though.
‘If you knew him only as a companion why are you hesitant about telling the police?’
She was ahead of me on the narrow path, and talking was difficult. There was no reply to my question and the Piper’s Green pub was in sight. She was making it plain that the subject was now closed.
Nevertheless I had a text from her later that day to say she’d follow my advice about volunteering information to the police. She was going to be highly annoyed with me when the truth about Philip Moxton came out and she realized that I had been holding back on her, but I was more interested as to whether she was or would be on Brandon’s suspect list as well as being a witness. She had seemed straightforward enough, despite her obstinacy, but I couldn’t rule out the possibility – even likelihood – that she had been economical with the truth as to what her relationship had been with Geoffrey Green. Had she harboured thoughts of marrying him (with or without the knowledge of who he was) and then been rejected? Was there some other woman around? Did money come into the picture? The will for example? That raised a question in itself: did Geoffrey Green have a will of
his own or was it Philip Moxton’s?
None of my theories about Wendy or the Moxton case quite fitted. As theories go, I was in for a rough ride on a bumpy road. It proved even bumpier than I had expected. ‘That dreadful woman’ rang from Staveley House the following morning on the Frogs Hill office line and I nearly dropped the receiver as the familiar voice barked at me.
‘Are you Jack Colby?’
Without waiting for anything more than a bleat of ‘yes’ from me, she swept on. ‘I want you over here now.’ The head teacher had spoken.
‘But I can’t—’
‘You can. Staveley House,’ she had the courtesy to add, in case I thought she’d moved to Moscow.
‘For what reason?’
The news that Green was Philip Moxton was surely going to break at any moment, as the story of Green’s murder had received great attention in the nationals. I found it hard to believe Miss Janes-cum-Moxton didn’t know about the Green identity although it was possible Philip had kept the details from her and merely told her he had another residence for security purposes.
Reply came there none from the lady, the self-styled owner of Staveley House – as indeed she might now be. The last thing I wanted was to rush over to Staveley House again. I reminded myself that I was on Brandon’s payroll and I had wanted to be involved for Philip’s sake. Now I was, although technically I was in it only so far as determining whether the Packard and Golf had played any part in Geoffrey Green’s murder and if so what. True, I felt I owed Philip Moxton for not having reacted to his declaration of fearing to be murdered, but dealing with his dotty sister was surely not part of my penitence.
Rebelliously I drove over to Staveley House once more. It was unlikely that Miss Moxton would be on her own with just John Carson and any other staff around. There’d be some police presence at least. There was indeed. A huge sign on the roadway announced the gateway’s presence and two uniformed PCs guarded it. I could see no sign of Carson.
‘Jack Colby,’ I said, leaning out of the window. ‘Appointment with Miss Moxton or Miss Janes.’
One PC stepped forward. He regarded me impassively. ‘Who are they?’
Here we go again. ‘One person and she lives at Staveley House.’
‘You’re not on my list. What’s your business?’
I resisted temptation and showed him my police ID. ‘Ring the house and tell whoever answers that I’m here. Police business.’
He did, with a distinct and grumpy expression that conveyed ‘why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ and then barked out, ‘And the name’s Miss Joan Moxton for future reference.’
‘It changes from time to time,’ I informed him affably.
I left the Alfa in the car park there and walked up to the house with some foreboding. There had been several cars there, and one of them, a Bentley, hardly looked like the latest police issue so I wondered what awaited me. Downing Street?
Only one car was parked in the forecourt of Staveley House, the Packard, and a fine sight it was. I doubted whether it had been moved since I came to visit the gardens with Cara. It looked lonelier than ever.
The door flew open almost immediately I pressed the bell, and there stood Joan Moxton, alias Miss Janes, in corduroy trousers, smock, that greying black hair and fierce expression. I could see no offensive weapon in her hand, but I kept my distance just in case.
‘You took your time,’ she informed me.
‘I have a fair way to drive,’ I said mildly, ‘and a business to run.’
‘So I’m told.’
She didn’t welcome me in. She didn’t even invite me in. All she said was: ‘Take that away.’
She waved a hand indicating I should turn around. I did so and saw the only object to which she could be referring as ‘that’.
‘The Packard?’ I was astounded. ‘What’s gone wrong with it?’
‘Nothing. I just want it gone. Out of here. For good. Here are the keys – and all the registration documents.’ She thrust a large envelope into my bewildered possession together with the car keys.
I struggled with reason. ‘You want to sell it?’
‘No, just get rid of it. Keep it for all I care.’
I cleared my throat. An excellent if self-conscious method of gathering one’s wits and preparing for battle.
‘Are you the Packard’s legal owner, Miss Moxton?’
‘How would I know? Just take it.’
‘Then how do I know?’
This confused her. ‘My brother’s dead. That means I can have the car and give it to whom I please. You. Take it.’
I stood my ground. ‘But I have to be sure who does own it now that your brother has died. It’s early days and there’s probate to consider.’
‘Oh very well,’ she said impatiently. ‘Come in and talk to him.’
For a moment I thought she meant her brother, but even Joan wasn’t that confused. When I followed her into Staveley House for my second – and I hoped last visit – she led me to the room where I had talked with Philip. At the table sat two middle-aged men, both looking so staid and uncomfortable that they looked out of place in this madhouse. I knew one, by sight anyway. It was Timothy Mild, who as CEO of Moxtons had been Philip’s bosom friend, or perhaps enemy – or both. He looked at me with a companionable ‘we’re in this together’ nod, as we formally introduced ourselves. Joan had shown no sign of doing so.
‘Tell this man what you told me,’ she ordered the other man, who had so many papers in front of him he was obviously a solicitor, accountant or executor. He was studying them with such intensity that his embarrassment was obvious.
‘Something about the Packard standing outside?’ I prompted him. ‘Miss Moxton seems to want me to take it away, but I’d like to know more about the legal situation of ownership before I consider doing so.’
As Joan still refrained from introducing me, Timothy did the job for him. ‘Jack Colby, James. The police mentioned him to us. James Hall is Philip’s solicitor and executor, Jack.’
James rather reluctantly rose to his feet. ‘Could I … er …’
I helped him out. ‘See my police ID. Certainly.’
He examined it for so long I feared he was going to accuse me of faking it, but perhaps he was merely still embarrassed. Anyway, I was duly accepted into the magic circle, if three can be a circle. ‘I was called in by the police over Geoffrey Green’s death,’ I began experimentally.
No one looked puzzled, so that situation was clear.
‘The very idea that my brother was murdered because he was Philip Moxton is quite ridiculous,’ Joan boomed in. ‘Clearly some village lout killed him.’
‘You knew he had this alias?’
‘Of course. I’m not a fool. Philip had this absurd notion that he would be murdered so now he is dead everyone assumes he was killed because of who he was. It was clearly someone who wanted to steal his Golf. This ridiculous arrangement of two names was entirely his idea. His residence was here, but if anyone called whose name or face I did not know, I had to deny all knowledge of him. If it was someone I did know, I should telephone him and he would make an appointment to be here. I would point out, however, that it was as Geoffrey Green that he was killed. Nevertheless, I agreed to his plan. I had no choice. It seemed reasonable enough.’
Put that way, it did. ‘Is Philip Moxton’s dual life as Green now established without doubt?’ I asked James Hall.
‘Yes. Miss Moxton has identified him. There is bank documentation too.’
So that was one problem out of the way. Now for the next. ‘What is the legal position over the Packard?’ I asked. ‘Did Geoffrey Green as well as Philip Moxton leave a will?’
Timothy Mild hooted with laughter. ‘That would muddy the waters nicely.’
James Hall paled at such levity. ‘I have been in touch with a solicitor who occasionally acted for Geoffrey Green. He has not mentioned one. However, you may be assured that I have given Miss Moxton my permission for you to take the car aw
ay now. It was bequeathed to her in Mr Moxton’s will and the car was registered in his name, so you need have no fear in taking the Packard.’
Joan looked grimly satisfied. I wasn’t sure that I was, however.
‘That might not be enough if I sell the car on her behalf.’ It occurred to me that I was talking as though I was actively wanting to take it, which was a sobering thought. It was an attractive beast and my instinctive love of classic cars made me think it deserved a better home than with Miss Moxton. Perhaps I should give it back to the previous owners, despite the fact that they too seemed anxious to be rid of it. Or perhaps she should. I doubted whether she would though. She might even send it for scrap.
The thought of that warm buttery princess standing out there on the forecourt, lonely and unloved, made me realize that I couldn’t risk that. The word sell however had enraged Joan Moxton.
‘Do as you like with the damned car,’ she yelled at me. ‘But I told you not to sell it. To no one.’
‘I couldn’t guarantee to keep it. I might have to give it away, perhaps to a museum.’
A silence, which Joan at last broke. ‘If you must, but not to the Herricks.’
Now we were getting somewhere. James Hall and Timothy Mild seemed to be paying attention to anything but what was going on between Joan and myself.
‘You do know the Herricks then? Of course you do,’ I quickly added. ‘They were here at the Staveley Gardens Open Day.’
A withering glance. ‘I know them. I don’t like them.’
‘How about your nephew, Barnabas? Mr Moxton had a son, I believe.’
Timothy speedily rejoined the discussion. ‘Barnabas is about to become a very rich man. I doubt if he needs an old Packard.’
James Hall replied speedily too. ‘As the car was specifically willed to Miss Moxton, I think you may be assured that Barnabas will not be contesting the issue.’
‘Wouldn’t he like the opportunity of having it now that Miss Moxton has declared she doesn’t want to take the gift up?’
James Hall hesitated. ‘That is up to you, Mr Colby.’
