by Clara Benson
By Sunday evening, however, everything had changed, for to everyone’s surprise Mr. Norris turned out to have an alibi. At the time of the murder—which, given the presence of three witnesses during the fatal period, could be narrowed down to an interval of approximately five minutes—he had been eating his lunch in the Red Lion Inn in Banford Green, in company with his man Ben Shaw. As it was the day of the fête, the inn had not been very busy, but the landlord and one or two other customers, as well as Ben Shaw himself, were willing to swear to Andrew Norris’s presence there at the crucial time. This settled the matter and the police were forced to release Norris forthwith, much to their annoyance (for they had been congratulating themselves on an easy case), leaving the small matter of who had killed Thomas Tipping at present unsolved. An inquest was to be held on Tuesday morning, but it was expected to be adjourned while the police investigated further.
On Monday morning Angela came down to breakfast a little late to find Humphrey and Elisabeth already in the breakfast-parlour. Mrs. Randall was there too, and the lorgnette immediately sprang to attention as Angela entered. Elisabeth was buttering a slice of toast and holding forth about the momentous events of the past two days.
‘Mrs. Hunter says that old Norris didn’t help himself at all when they arrested him,’ she was saying. ‘Apparently, he denied doing it, but said that whoever did do it had done him a favour and that he’d like to shake him by the hand.’
‘Good gracious!’ said Mrs. Randall, looking suitably shocked.
‘I’d like to know who told her that, though,’ went on Elisabeth. ‘She was laid up all yesterday so it must have been a visitor. Or perhaps she heard it from Mr. Hunter. He might have heard it from someone at church. Yes—that must be it: he probably got it from Mrs. Primm. She’d know from her husband, of course, since he was the one who arrested Andrew Norris.’
It was too early in the morning for Angela to follow all this, and so she grasped at the one piece of information she had managed to understand.
‘Is Mrs. Hunter ill?’ she said.
‘Not exactly,’ said Elisabeth. ‘She sprained her wrist and grazed her knees rather badly falling off her bicycle on the way home from the fête. Of course, she’s far too old for that sort of nonsense these days, but she will insist on doing it. Luckily Alice Hopwell saw her and helped her home, but they had to leave the bicycle and Mrs. Hunter was terribly worried about it—the silly woman is convinced the gipsies are out to steal every bicycle in the area—but then Alice said she’d chain it up until Mrs. Hunter’s wrist was better.’
‘I see,’ said Angela. She helped herself to some toast and gazed out of the window. Sunday had been almost unbearably tedious—she had lost count of the number of times she had apologized for the pig incident, although of course it had not been her fault—and she was longing to escape and get some fresh air away from Two Tithes. She wondered wistfully whether the police were swarming around Dead Man’s Path today, hunting for clues. It would be rather fun to help, she thought—although of course she had no right to do so, and indeed would probably be considered a dreadful nuisance if she did turn up. Still, she would certainly escape and go for a walk if she could.
She was about to take a sip of her tea when her attention was caught by the sight of a tall, gangling young man, sparse of chin and splendid of tooth, who was just then sauntering nonchalantly past the window in a regrettable yellow checked jacket. He skirted a rose-bush and began to walk along the path to the left-hand side of a large pergola.
‘Who is that?’ she said. The others looked up.
‘I have no idea,’ said Humphrey.
‘He’s not from around here, at any rate,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You don’t suppose he’s one of these gawpers, do you? These people who turn up and stare ghoulishly whenever there’s a murder. I’ve heard of them before.’
‘He has no business on our grounds,’ said Humphrey, ‘and I shall certainly warn him off.’
He stood up and was about to leave the room when a second young man sauntered past in the opposite direction, a notebook in his hand and an unlit cigarette protruding from the corner of his mouth. His hat was stuck on his head at a rakish angle and he looked most disreputable. Angela opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. They all watched as the second man skirted the rose-bush and walked along the path to the right-hand side of the pergola, and Angela stifled a laugh at the enormous start he gave when he reached the end and caught sight of the first man. The two intruders glared at one another suspiciously for a full minute, then appeared to enter into cautious conversation. The first man said something with a smirk, and the second grimaced and seemed inclined to continue on his way alone, but the first man set off to catch him up and the two of them walked off together in what looked like a state of uneasy truce.
‘Well!’ said Elisabeth, once they were out of sight. ‘Of all the impudence. One would think they owned the place. If you see them again, Humphrey, you must warn them off. We can’t have tourists tramping across the grounds whenever they like just because someone has been killed.’
‘They’re not tourists,’ said Angela. ‘I’m rather afraid it’s the press. They must have got wind of the story.’
‘The press?’ said Humphrey in dismay. ‘How did they find out about it?’ An awful suspicion began to dawn on him and he drew himself up and regarded his sister sternly. ‘Now, Angela, tell the truth: did you call them?’
‘Of course not,’ said Angela in surprise.
‘I know you are fond of appearing in the newspapers—’ went on Humphrey.
‘No I’m not,’ interjected Angela hurriedly.
‘—but I should have thought that a quiet visit to your family was hardly a suitable occasion on which to invite the press to intrude.’
‘But I didn’t,’ said Angela. ‘I promise you, I didn’t.’
‘Well, then,’ said Humphrey. ‘If you say so, then I suppose I shall have to believe you. But how did they know to come here?’
‘They have all kinds of ways of finding things out,’ said Angela. ‘They certainly wouldn’t need me to tell them that someone had been murdered.’
‘Then must we really put up with reporters crawling all over the place from now on?’ said Elisabeth.
‘I’m afraid we must,’ said Angela. She looked out of the window again, wanting to go out and join in the fun, even though she knew nobody would approve. Her supposition was confirmed a minute later, when Humphrey cleared his throat and said:
‘I do hope, Angela, that you will have the sense not to try and interfere with the police as they carry out their investigation. I am aware that you have gained something of a reputation for detective-work,’ (this last phrase was uttered down his nose) ‘but I am quite certain they have no need of your help in this instance—and, indeed, they may consider it rude of you to offer, since it might be interpreted as a suggestion that they are not capable of doing their job.’
‘I’m sure they’re perfectly capable of doing their job,’ said Angela. ‘And I never—’ she stopped. She had been about to say, ‘interfere,’ but she realized that was not exactly true. She went on, ‘Of course, it’s nothing to do with me, and I have no intention of doing any investigating.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Humphrey, with an approving nod. ‘Let’s leave that sort of thing to the people who know what they are doing. There is nothing worse than an incompetent amateur.’
Angela stirred her tea vigorously here, but said nothing.
They finished breakfast and Humphrey went outside to find the intruders and give them a dressing-down, while Elisabeth walked out without a word to talk to the servants. Mrs. Randall put down her cup and rose.
‘You did look funny with the pig,’ she remarked, and went out.
Angela waited five minutes then, as nobody seemed inclined to come back, got up and ran to fetch her hat, and was shortly walking briskly away from the house and towards Dead Man’s Path. It might be ghoulish of her, but
she could not help her curiosity, and if she was spotted she could always say she was going to visit Kathie. Of course, she had no intention at all of doing any investigating, but there was no reason why she should not take a little stroll into the village.
She took a different route from the one she had taken on her previous walk, and entered Dead Man’s Path from the field in which the fête had been held. The sky was overcast and there was a chill in the air, and the entrance to the path where the trees met overhead had a more forbidding aspect to it than it had the other day in the sunshine. As she entered the path she was struck by the gloom and the silence, and she half-considered turning back. She pressed on, however, and followed the windings of the path until she was almost at the spot where Mr. Norris had pointed his shotgun at her on Friday. As she approached, she heard voices and slowed cautiously. Soon the owners of the voices came into view. Two men were standing in conversation. One of them was gesturing here and there as he explained something to the other, who listened carefully. Angela recognized the second man immediately, and as she approached he looked up and his eyes widened in surprise.
‘Hallo, inspector,’ she said cheerfully.
‘Why, Mrs. Marchmont,’ said Inspector Jameson. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’
‘Being dreadfully curious, I’m afraid,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t seem to shake it off. But I was about to ask the same question of you. Have they called in Scotland Yard already?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Jameson. ‘The local inspector picked this week to go on holiday, and I happened to be in the area to discuss another case with the Chief Constable when I heard about this one, so someone suggested I take a look. This is Sergeant Primm, who is really in charge of the matter. But don’t tell me you’re mixed up in all this?’
‘No, not at all,’ said Angela. ‘It’s nothing to do with me this time, I’m pleased to say. I didn’t know the dead man—at least, not to speak to—and I didn’t find his body either. I’m quite a bystander on this occasion. I was helping at the church fête when it all happened.’
Sergeant Primm shook his head in disgust.
‘It’s a pity it had to happen just then,’ he said. ‘The whole village was wandering about that day. We’re going to have a terrible job establishing alibis.’
‘It sounds like it,’ said Angela. ‘I don’t envy you the task. But everybody is talking about it, so perhaps witnesses will come forward of their own accord. And presumably whoever killed Mr. Tipping must have had a motive, so it’s not as though the whole of Banford is under suspicion, is it?’
‘No,’ said the sergeant politely, but did not go on. Angela guessed he had his own ideas as to who might have done it but did not wish to speak of them in her presence.
‘If you were helping at the church fête then I suppose you must be staying here,’ said Jameson.
‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘I’m at Two Tithes, the big house just outside the village.’
‘Isn’t that Sir Humphrey Cardew’s place?’ said Jameson. ‘Are the Cardews friends of yours?’
‘They’re family, as a matter of fact,’ said Angela. ‘I am—or was—a Cardew myself. Humphrey is my brother.’
‘Is he really?’ said Jameson, staring.
‘Does that surprise you?’ said Angela.
‘It does, rather,’ he said. ‘Somehow I can’t quite picture it.’
‘No, Humphrey is far more “county” than I am,’ said Angela with a smile. ‘I rather left all that sort of thing behind me years ago. As a matter of fact, the last time I was here was before the war. It’s just the most tremendous coincidence that when I finally come back here a murder happens—at least, I assume it was murder. Am I allowed to ask you about it, or must you be terribly discreet?’ Asking questions was not the same as investigating, she told herself.
‘That is entirely the decision of Sergeant Primm, since he is in charge and I am merely an observer for the purposes of this investigation,’ said Inspector Jameson politely.
‘Not at all, sir,’ said the sergeant, acknowledging the gesture. ‘We’re only too glad to accept whatever assistance you can give us here.’
‘Well, then, I suppose you know that Mrs. Marchmont has been very helpful to the police during several recent murder investigations,’ said Inspector Jameson, ‘and has gained rather a reputation for her detective-work. Still,’ he went on, addressing Angela, ‘there’s not much to tell you at the moment. I suppose you—and the entire village—know as much as I do. Thomas Tipping was killed by a shotgun blast to the head while walking along here with his dog shortly after lunch-time on Saturday, while most people were at the church fête. A man known to have a grudge against Mr. Tipping was arrested, then released shortly afterwards when he was discovered to have an alibi. I haven’t seen any of the witnesses yet, but I understand the sergeant has spoken to them.’
‘Was Mr. Tipping carrying a shotgun himself?’ said Angela.
‘Why, yes, he was,’ replied the inspector. ‘It was found next to his body.’
‘Presumably he had no chance to use it to defend himself, then,’ said Angela.
‘Not much. He was shot in the back of the head,’ said the sergeant. ‘He won’t have known a thing.’
‘Then I suppose that’s another point in favour of Andrew Norris,’ said Angela, thinking. ‘Not that he needs one, of course, if he has an alibi—but if Norris did it, then surely he wouldn’t have sneaked up behind Mr. Tipping to shoot him, since he regularly threatened him with it quite openly.’
‘Oh, you know that, do you?’ said Inspector Jameson.
‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘I happened to—er—encounter Mr. Norris and his shotgun myself the other day, and he made no bones about it.’
‘That’s Norris, right enough,’ agreed the sergeant. ‘Everyone knew about it.’
‘Was Mr. Tipping’s shotgun still loaded?’ asked Angela hesitantly. ‘I mean, I don’t suppose he was shot with his own gun?’
Primm shook his head.
‘No, of course not,’ said Angela, ‘or there would have been a struggle for the gun, wouldn’t there? But you say there wasn’t.’
‘We will need to find out if anyone was seen running around the place with a shotgun shortly after Saturday lunch-time,’ said Jameson.
‘Hmph,’ said Sergeant Primm. ‘Hardly the time of year for it. I know Tom Tipping carried his for protection against old Norris, who always carries his about with him, but even Norris didn’t have his on Saturday—leastways, not according to the landlord of the Red Lion.’
‘So, then, all you need is to find a witness who saw a man with a gun,’ said Angela, ‘and then presumably you’ll have your murderer.’
‘Let’s hope such a witness exists, then,’ said Inspector Jameson.
EIGHT
Just then they were joined, rather to Angela’s surprise, by Norman Tipping and his mother, who had been walking along Dead Man’s Path together. It was the first time Angela had met Margaret Tipping properly, although she had seen her at the fête, and she looked at the older woman curiously. Mrs. Tipping must have been handsome once: her bones were good and her features regular, but now, in her sixties, she looked worn down and tired—although, of course, the fact that her husband had just died in violent and mysterious circumstances might have had something to do with that. If Mrs. Tipping was particularly upset by his death, however, she gave no sign of it, for her expression was closed and revealed nothing of her thoughts. As she and her son joined the others at the spot where Tom Tipping had died she glanced about her dispassionately, but said not a word. Sergeant Primm introduced the newcomers to Inspector Jameson. Norman Tipping said what was proper, and then went on:
‘I’m afraid Mother insisted on coming here this morning. I tried to dissuade her from it but there was no putting her off. She would come.’
Mrs. Tipping appeared not to be listening. She was still looking around expressionlessly.
‘I always knew something dreadful would happen here,
’ she said at last in a flat voice. ‘And now it has. The place is haunted, don’t you think? Dead Man’s Path, they call it. Well, whoever named it was right enough.’
The day was dull, and thin fingers of grey light penetrated weakly through the branches of the trees overhead and onto the path. Angela glanced about her involuntarily and for a moment could not help but agree with Margaret Tipping’s description. It was quite different from how it had looked the other day, when the sunshine had dappled the place with cheerful patches of yellow and green.
Inspector Jameson glanced at Sergeant Primm and said:
‘I’m very sorry about your husband, Mrs. Tipping, and I’d like to find out what happened to him. Should you mind if I asked you one or two questions? We can do it at your house if you would prefer not to stay here.’
‘Oh, it’s all the same to me. We can do it here if you like,’ said Mrs. Tipping, still with that expressionless tone.
‘Thank you,’ said Jameson. ‘Very well, I understand from Sergeant Primm that your husband went out at the same time every day.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Tipping. ‘He always goes for a walk after lunch—used to go, I should say.’
‘Did he always come the same way?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Tipping. ‘He always came along here. Always along Dead Man’s Path. I told him not to do it—not to provoke Andrew—but he would never listen.’
‘Do you mean Mr. Norris?’ said Jameson, glancing at Sergeant Primm, who nodded. ‘I gather there was a dispute between your husband and Mr. Norris over this path. What was it about, exactly?’
‘Andrew has a bee in his bonnet about it,’ said Mrs. Tipping. ‘Everyone uses it, but there’s some doubt as to whether it’s common land or whether it belongs to Andrew. Andrew insists it’s his, of course. He says that anyone can use it who likes—but only because he says so. When he and Tom fell out, he withdrew his permission and forbade Tom from using the path. I know he’s a stubborn old thing but it was partly Tom’s fault, as he would deliberately provoke Andrew about the path and taunt him about its being common land, when he ought to have kept quiet. But Andrew always had a vengeful temper on him, and that’s why Tom never went out without his shotgun, because he never knew when Andrew would turn up and threaten him.’
