The Problem at Two Tithes (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7)

by Clara Benson

  ‘Ah, Angela.’

  He fell silent.

  ‘Yes, Humphrey?’ she returned politely.

  He tried again.

  ‘This dreadful business,’ he said. ‘Of course, there’s no question of Kathie’s guilt. The police have obviously made a terrible mistake.’

  ‘They have acted on the evidence they have, and so to that extent they’ve done exactly what they ought to have done,’ said Angela.

  ‘Still, we can’t have innocent people being put in prison,’ said Humphrey. He paused. ‘You are by way of being an expert in these matters. I don’t suppose you have any idea of who really committed the crime?’

  ‘No, I don’t. As you may remember, I promised at your specific request not to do any investigating,’ said Angela, who after all was only human and could not resist a dig.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said Humphrey, bowing his head. ‘And now I am asking you to break that promise and look into it for us. The police have evidently decided they have the right people in custody, and so we cannot expect any further help from them. Please, Angela. If you won’t do it for us, then at least do it for Kathie.’

  Angela looked at her brother and sister-in-law and pitied them. They were so constrained by self-imposed custom and manners that they were completely at a loss when presented with a situation such as this one. She relented.

  ‘Why, of course I’ll look into it,’ she said. ‘I don’t like seeing Kathie in gaol any more than you do. Now, I don’t say I can solve the thing, but I’ll do what I can. I know,’ she said, as a sudden thought struck her. ‘I’ll get Freddy to help me.’

  ‘Freddy Pilkington-Soames?’ said Elisabeth. ‘Wasn’t he meant to be writing a story on the fête? I haven’t seen any sign of it so far. Can he be relied upon, do you suppose?’

  ‘He has his uses on occasion,’ said Angela.

  ‘What, that young man who trespassed in our garden?’ said Humphrey.

  Angela stared at him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘He did, didn’t he? How interesting.’ She looked as though she were about to go on, but then changed her mind. Instead she stood up. ‘It’s been rather a long day and I do believe I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I shall start tomorrow, but now I’m going to bed. Goodnight.’

  And she left the room abruptly, leaving Humphrey and Elisabeth staring after her in perplexity.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The next morning Angela was up bright and early, and by eight o’clock was walking briskly across Tithes Field in the direction of the village. She crossed the green and headed purposefully towards the Red Lion, then knocked and put her head round the door. Nobody was about so she entered and said, ‘Hallo?’

  The place seemed deserted. Angela passed through the public bar and tried a door. On the other side of it was a slightly more salubrious room which Angela supposed was the saloon. There was nobody there, so Angela came out and looked about her. To her left was another door, which was slightly ajar. She went through it and found herself in the snug. Opposite her was yet another door, standing wide open. Through it she could see the back yard, and beyond that some cottages and the very tip of the church spire. Angela went and stood in the doorway and saw Bob Sanderson busy moving things about for no particular purpose that she could see.

  ‘Hallo,’ she said, and made him start. He looked surprised to see such a visitor, but came inside immediately and asked how he could help her.

  ‘I have a message for Mr. Pilkington-Soames,’ said Angela. ‘It’s rather urgent. Please tell him his mother telephoned.’ She scribbled something on a scrap of paper as she spoke, and handed it to the landlord, who took it doubtfully.

  ‘I’ll take it to him, but he won’t thank me for it,’ he said. ‘He was up late last night.’

  ‘It’s rather urgent,’ said Angela again, ‘and I’m afraid it won’t wait.’

  Sanderson nodded and disappeared. Angela returned to the public bar and took a seat. Five minutes later there was a thundering of feet and Freddy came hurtling down the stairs, his jacket half on and his tie unfastened. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was standing up all over the place, and he looked ghastly. It was quite evident that he had kept on drinking after he had left them the day before, and was now suffering the consequences.

  ‘Hallo, Angela,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Can’t stop. I must telephone my mother.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘I don’t suppose you speak to her nearly as often as you ought.’

  He was halfway out of the door as she spoke but something in her tone arrested him, and he stopped and came back in.

  ‘All right, what’s all this?’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘What’s all what?’ said Angela, opening her eyes wide.

  ‘Why are you here? Did you bring this?’ He flapped the note at her.

  ‘That?’

  ‘Yes, this,’ he said.

  ‘The telephone message, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes, the telephone message,’ said Freddy. ‘You know very well what I’m talking about.’

  ‘That would be the telephone message that says your mother has just found out what you got up to in Southend last February and is stopping your allowance, yes?’ said Angela.

  ‘Yes, that one,’ he said, the truth starting to dawn. ‘You seem to know rather a lot about it.’

  ‘That’s because I wrote it,’ she said sweetly.

  He drew himself up, aghast.

  ‘Why, of all the—you—’ he said. He regarded her reproachfully. ‘That’s a low trick to play, to drag a man up from his bed of pain and throw him into a panic like that. I thought better of you, Angela.’

  ‘A fatal mistake on your part,’ said Angela. ‘You didn’t really think I’d let you get away with running off and leaving me to face Elisabeth yesterday, did you? Quid pro quo and all that.’

  ‘You’re a wicked woman, Mrs. M,’ he said.

  ‘I have my moments,’ she said modestly. ‘Anyway, now you’re up we can get down to business.’

  ‘What business?’ he said, sitting down. ‘I can’t get down to any business until I’ve had at least four more hours’ sleep, followed by a decent lunch and a short nap.’

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ said Angela. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the police have arrested Norman and Kathie, and we need to find out who really did kill Tom Tipping before the whole thing gets completely out of hand.’

  ‘I say,’ he said seriously. ‘That’s bad news. Poor Kathie.’

  ‘Yes, it is bad news,’ said Angela. ‘So you see, this is no time for you to be lolling in bed.’ She dug in her pocket and handed him the little silver flask out of which they had been drinking the day before. ‘Here, this ought to do the trick.’

  ‘A touch of hair of the dog, eh?’ said Freddy. ‘Well, it’s worth a shot, I suppose.’

  Angela watched with malicious pleasure as he took a large gulp from the flask and then nearly spat it out in horror.

  ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, glaring at her. ‘Are you trying to poison me?’

  ‘Drink it,’ said Angela. ‘I had to suffer the stuff yesterday, so I don’t see why you should escape it. It’s a concoction of Marthe’s, and I promise it’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘But I can’t finish it. I’ll be sick,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Do it for Kathie,’ said Angela. She watched as he held his nose and tossed the rest of the stuff down with a shudder. ‘Now, go and smarten yourself up and have some breakfast, and I’ll see you on the green in half an hour.’

  ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘I say, I feel a little better already.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Angela. She stood up. ‘By the way, what did you get up to in Southend?’ she said as she prepared to leave. ‘It must have been fun, whatever it was.’

  ‘Oh, it was,’ he said complacently, ‘but a gentleman never kisses and tells.’

  ‘I should think not. Nor does a lady,’ said Angela
. ‘Or a lady’s maid,’ she added pointedly, and went out.

  ‘Ah,’ said Freddy to himself.

  Thirty-five minutes later, he joined her on the green, looking and feeling rather better after a wash and a hasty breakfast.

  ‘We’d better hurry up before Corky gets up and spots us,’ he said. ‘He’s been rather quiet for the last couple of days, and that gives me nothing but nervous feelings, as it invariably means he’s plotting something.’

  ‘Well, I hope it’s not another story about me,’ said Angela. ‘I’m not sure I can stand the humiliation twice in one week.’

  ‘More likely he’s back to his old trick of following me about until I get a scent and then trying to get in before me,’ said Freddy. ‘Still, we appear to be safe for now. Where are we going?’

  ‘Dead Man’s Path,’ said Angela. ‘I’m not certain it will help much, but I want to take another look at the murder scene.’

  They walked in silence until they reached the spot where Tom Tipping had been found, then stopped to look around them. The place looked exactly as it had the first time Angela had passed along it and encountered Mr. Norris and his dog, the sun shining through the leaves and dappling the path with greens and yellows. One would never have supposed that something so violent could have happened here.

  ‘Odd how different it looks when the sun is out,’ she said. ‘When I came here two days after the murder, the weather was grey and overcast, and we all thought the place seemed haunted.’

  Freddy was tramping about, swiping at the undergrowth with a stick.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ he said.

  ‘I’m just trying to picture what happened that day,’ said Angela. ‘Tom Tipping was found just here, I think. He’d been walking in this direction when someone came up behind him and shot him in the back of the head.’

  ‘Whoever it was must have sneaked up pretty quietly,’ observed Freddy. ‘Do you think he was lying in wait for him? And how did the murderer know Tipping would pass this way?’

  ‘He came along here at the same time every day,’ said Angela absently. ‘Everybody knew it.’ She was thinking. ‘Now, which way did the murderer come? The police have been assuming that he came along the main path.’

  She left Dead Man’s Path and picked her way through some nettles to a grey stone wall that could just be glimpsed beyond the trees. Here, the moss and ivy had weakened the stones and the wall had collapsed.

  ‘The church,’ said Freddy. ‘Do you suppose he came this way?’

  Angela did not reply but stepped carefully over the fallen stones and into the churchyard. It was cool and peaceful here, and she stood for a moment and gazed about her. Freddy stopped by a grave which looked clean and well-tended, and read the inscription on it.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, taken aback. ‘It says here Lillian Cardew.’

  ‘My mother,’ said Angela in a matter-of-fact voice. She came and stood next to him. ‘The flowers are starting to die. I shall have to get some new ones.’

  Freddy removed his hat.

  ‘She must have been a remarkable woman to have had you,’ he said.

  ‘She was, rather,’ said Angela. ‘Nothing to do with me, though. She was a far better person than I am.’ She stood for a moment in reflection, and then turned away. ‘Now,’ she said briskly. ‘This is the shortest way around to the front, I believe.’

  They skirted the outer wall of the little church until they reached the front door. To one side of it stood a bicycle.

  ‘Is that Mrs. Hunter’s bicycle?’ said Freddy. ‘Her wrist must be taking longer to heal than she expected.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it turned out to be a fracture rather than a sprain. The bones in the wrist are delicate and it’s easily done.’

  ‘What’s that tall thing it’s chained to?’ said Freddy.

  ‘It’s the old poor box,’ said Angela. ‘I don’t think it’s used any more.’

  ‘Aren’t poor boxes usually rather smaller than that?’ said Freddy. ‘They must have been pretty optimistic when they installed this one if they thought they could fill it. Are the good people of Banford Green generous enough to fill a box with money to a height of three feet or more?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ said Angela. ‘I seem to recall from somewhere back in the mists of time that this particular one was donated by a local worthy who had been a sea-captain. He carved it out of the hull of his ship or something, and they hadn’t the heart to ask him for a smaller one instead.’

  ‘Well, then, all I can say is I hope he patched the hole it left before he put out to sea again,’ said Freddy.

  They emerged through the church gate and found themselves on Church Lane, standing opposite Alice Hopwell’s cottage. Angela gazed at it with some interest, and as she did so the front door burst open and two of the Hopwell children came racing out. They began chasing each other up and down the lane, laughing uproariously. Freddy watched indulgently.

  ‘It’s the man,’ said a voice next to them, and they turned to see Georgina Hopwell standing in the open doorway. At the end of the narrow passage behind the girl, Angela could just glimpse two more children playing quietly in the house’s tiny back yard.

  ‘Hallo, Georgina,’ said Freddy. ‘I hope you’re being a good girl.’

  Georgina inserted a finger firmly into one nostril and stared at him.

  ‘You’d better be careful, or you’ll dislodge your brain and push it out through the other one,’ Freddy told her.

  ‘Good girl,’ said Georgina. ‘Mama’s gone out.’

  The other two children ran back into the house, then the front door slammed and Angela and Freddy were alone again in the lane.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Angela.

  ‘I see you’re having one of your ideas,’ said Freddy. ‘I hope it’s a good one.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was you who put me on to it,’ she replied.

  ‘Ah, my usual stroke of genius,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

  She did so, and he whistled.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘How can we prove it?’

  ‘We’re going to need William,’ said Angela. ‘I think he may be rather useful in this instance. Would you be a darling and fetch him for me? I want to scout about here a bit more.’

  ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring him back here as soon as I can.’

  ‘In the meantime I shall have a chat with the little Hopwells,’ said Angela.

  ‘But Mrs. Hopwell is out. Georgina said so,’ said Freddy.

  ‘All the better,’ said Angela.

  Freddy ran off, and Angela turned to knock on the door of the tiny cottage. There was the sound of scuffling and shouting, then the door opened and a grubby face peered out suspiciously.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Angela.

  TWENTY-THREE

  A few minutes later Angela crossed the lane and entered the churchyard through the gate. She walked briskly back up the church path, glancing back occasionally at the Hopwells’ cottage, then crossed the fallen wall and returned to Dead Man’s Path. She intended to search methodically in the undergrowth at the edges—although she did not really expect to succeed where the police had failed—and she was about to begin when she was brought to a halt by a strange sound. She whirled around and to her surprise saw Margaret Tipping, standing in the spot where Tom Tipping had died and sobbing.

  Angela stood in surprise, not quite sure what to do at first. She did not wish to intrude on Mrs. Tipping’s private grief, yet it would have been cold-hearted of her to abandon the woman without at least ascertaining whether there were anything she could do. She was still wondering when Margaret looked up and saw her.

  ‘I suppose you think I’m crying for him,’ she said.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ said Angela.

  ‘I know everyone thinks I ought to,’ said Mrs. Tipping. ‘I know what everyone is saying about me. You all think I’m cold and heartless—that I haven’t even the common decency to weep for
my dead husband. Well, now I’m weeping, but it’s not for him.’

  ‘What is it for, then?’ said Angela.

  ‘For myself,’ she said. ‘And if that makes me selfish, then so be it.’

  Angela did not know what to say, so said nothing.

  ‘Look at you,’ went on Margaret. ‘All smartly dressed and well cared-for. You probably don’t remember me, but I knew you when you were small.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Angela. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t remember.’

  ‘Your mother and I were friends as girls, you see,’ said Margaret, ‘although we drifted apart as we got older. I was full of spirit, then. I wanted to know everything—wanted to go out and see the world. I was going to be a doctor, or a great explorer, or a professor. I wanted to study and learn everything. I was clever, you see.’ She looked down at the ground. ‘Of course, I never did any of that. Girls can’t, can they? We have to stay at home and do as we’re bid, and quite rightly, most would say. So I stayed here and got married and had Norman, and that was that. Nobody seemed to think I might want something more. Nobody seemed to care. Life goes on here, doesn’t it? Just like it has for five hundred years or more.’

  She glanced up again and looked directly at Angela as though defying her to utter a contradiction.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Angela inadequately.

  But Margaret seemed not to need any sympathy. She had a listener, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘I remember thinking when you were born that you were doomed like me—doomed to spend your life stifling in this place,’ she said. ‘You had spirit, just like I’d had, but I was certain you’d soon have it knocked out of you. You’d marry some respectable local man, as I did, and then waste away with the dullness of it all. The cake sales, and the church flowers, and the endless nothingness. But you grew up and went away, and I was so terribly envious of you. For a while I was tempted to run away myself, but where could I have gone? I had no money—Tom saw to that—and no education to speak of. I ought to have done it when I was young if I was going to do it at all. So I stayed here and read books about people who had adventures and screamed silently in my head as women do. You never had to do that, though, did you?’