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

by Clara Benson

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘They certainly seem to have made a little money for themselves recently.’

  The bicycle was unlocked and they wheeled it down the lane to the vicarage, where it was delivered safely into the custody of the Hunters’ garden shed and locked up.

  ‘There!’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘I shall report it to the police as soon as I can. We can’t simply let these people go on rampaging around the countryside, plundering and looting wherever they go. Now, you mustn’t leave just yet, for I want to talk to you both about this ridiculous Tipping business. Why on earth have the police taken it into their heads to arrest Kathie Montgomery? I know we all joked that he did it and she helped him, but really, nobody could possibly have taken the idea seriously, could they? Do you suppose the police were listening to all the rumours and acted on them? If that’s the case I shall have a very strong word with Sergeant Primm when I see him. Listening to gossip is no way to conduct an investigation. I never gossip myself, of course, but I have had occasion several times lately to speak to the parishioners on the subject. Thou shalt not be a talebearer among thy people, and neither shalt thou stand against the blood of thy neighbour. That’s what I say. It’s not right to speak ill of people before we know the facts. Or even after we know them,’ she added.

  ‘I don’t think the police acted on rumours,’ said Angela. ‘Unfortunately, there is strong circumstantial evidence to suggest that Norman and Kathie were involved in Mr. Tipping’s death.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘Why, everybody knows Daniel Tyler has sworn they were nowhere near Tom when the shotgun went off.’

  ‘There’s no proof that the bang they heard was the shot that killed him,’ said Angela. ‘Everyone just assumed that was the case. For all we know, Mr. Tipping might have been killed some time earlier.’

  ‘But of course it was the shot that killed him,’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘What else could it have been? If it wasn’t, and he died earlier, then they couldn’t have passed along the path when they did without stepping over Tom.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Angela, ‘and that’s what looks so suspicious. As things stand, there are no other suspects to speak of, and the two of them were on the spot at more or less the right time. You can’t blame the police for leaping to the obvious conclusion.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘Are you telling me they shot him before everyone thinks he was shot, and then deliberately walked along the path later, ignoring the dead body as they passed and not caring who saw them? And how are they meant to have arranged the convenient gunshot noise and the meeting with Tyler?’

  ‘It’s not the police’s job to explain that,’ said Freddy. ‘All they have to do is arrest the most likely suspect and then hand him over to the courts.’

  ‘Well, it’s a disgrace,’ said Mrs. Hunter, ‘and I can’t see your brother and sister-in-law standing for it, Mrs. Marchmont. If I were in their position I should complain to the chief constable.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt they will,’ said Angela.

  ‘And they must write to the newspapers too,’ added Mrs. Hunter. ‘Mr. Pilkington-Soames, you ought to take up the cause. This is a splendid opportunity for you to write something decent for a change. It will be a good way to get your name known. Perhaps you might even be offered a job with a proper newspaper on the strength of it.’

  ‘I think that’s a splendid idea,’ said Angela maliciously. ‘Don’t you agree, Freddy? Shouldn’t you like to work for a proper newspaper?’

  Freddy ignored her and said, ‘The newspapers can’t do much in the case of an arrest, and there’s nothing to say the two of them will be charged anyway.’

  ‘But if the police think they have the right people then who is going to find the real culprit?’ said Mrs. Hunter.

  ‘Why, Angela, of course,’ said Freddy, who was not going to let the earlier dig pass. ‘Didn’t you read the article about her in the Herald this week? She’s by way of being a detective, you know, and according to the story she’s sworn to bring the murderer to justice.’

  ‘Really? I don’t take the Herald myself,’ said Mrs. Hunter, ‘but Esther does. Perhaps she still has it.’

  ‘Then I suggest you look it out,’ said Freddy. ‘It’s a marvellous piece, and really shows Angela to best advantage.’

  ‘Well, I shall certainly go and look for it if what you say is true,’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘Now, can I offer you some tea?’

  ‘We’d love to,’ said Angela, ‘but I’m afraid we must go. I have a murderer to bring to justice,’ she added, glaring at Freddy.

  ‘Well, I wish you the best of luck, my dear,’ said Mrs. Hunter. ‘And if there’s anything I can do to help I shall be more than willing.’

  Out in the lane, Freddy said, ‘How long before Inspector Jameson gets here, do you suppose? Is there anything more we can do?’

  ‘We’ll have to see whether William has had any success,’ replied Angela. ‘Until then, I think we shall just have to wait.’

  ‘Well, at least we appear to be on the right track at last,’ said Freddy.

  ‘I do hope so,’ said Angela. ‘I should very much like to know how the murderer managed about the gun, though. It’s possible we may never find out.’

  They were passing the church as she spoke, and as they did she glanced towards the spot where Mrs. Hunter’s bicycle had stood.

  ‘Oh!’ she said. She stopped and began to laugh.

  ‘What?’ said Freddy.

  She did not reply, but turned and hurried through the church gate and up the path.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Freddy, following her.

  Angela stopped next to the old poor box.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  He looked puzzled, then comprehension dawned on his face.

  ‘Do you mean—’ he said.

  ‘It would explain the gipsies, wouldn’t it?’ said Angela.

  ‘It certainly would. Go on, then,’ said Freddy.

  She tried to lift the lid of the box.

  ‘It’s stuck,’ she said. ‘Look, the thief bent the staple when he tried to saw through it and now the hasp won’t lift over it.’

  ‘Let me have a go,’ said Freddy.

  He tried to bend the staple back with his hands, but had to give up.

  ‘What we need is a hammer,’ said Angela.

  ‘I don’t suppose you thought to put one in your pocket before you came out this morning?’ said Freddy.

  ‘I carry many odd things in my pockets, much to Marthe’s despair, but I have yet to resort to ironmongery,’ replied Angela.

  ‘Well, in the absence of that, a hobnailed boot will have to do,’ said Freddy, removing the article in question from his own foot. He lifted the boot and gave the staple several sharp blows with the heel.

  ‘Try it now,’ he said.

  With a little struggle, Angela managed to open the hasp, and lifted the lid. They peered inside, then their eyes met and they both smiled in triumph, for standing upright and leaning against the inside of the box was a shotgun.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘I do like it when I get things right,’ said Angela. ‘It doesn’t happen nearly often enough.’

  ‘You’re too modest,’ said Freddy. ‘Well, well—so this is where the gun was hidden. No wonder the police couldn’t find it—it was locked up in here all the time.’

  ‘Yes. The murderer presumably intended to come back and fetch it once the fuss had died down,’ said Angela. ‘But then Mrs. Hunter fell off her bicycle and Alice Hopwell chained it to the box for her. The gun’s been here all week, under our very noses.’

  ‘Whoever put it there must have been itching to get at it,’ said Freddy. ‘What a stroke of bad luck to carry out the perfect murder and then be unable to dispose of the weapon! The killer must have been terrified it would be found at any moment.’

  ‘Terrified enough to try and break into the box, in fact,’ said Angela.

  ‘It’s a good thing for us that our w
orthy sea captain gave it a lock made out of a ship’s anchor,’ said Freddy. ‘Of course, all this makes it look very much as though the whole thing were premeditated.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Angela. ‘It was premeditated, all right. There’s no doubt about that. Look—the barrel has been sawn off to make sure the gun fits exactly into the box.’

  ‘And to make it twice as deadly,’ said Freddy soberly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘I don’t suppose the murderer wanted to take any chances.’

  ‘I take it this is the murder weapon?’ said Freddy. ‘I mean, I don’t suppose the gun was just shoved in here as a donation to the poor. Let’s see, now—we don’t want to wipe any finger-prints off.’

  He dropped his boot and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief, which he wrapped around his hand. Then he lifted the gun out of the box and broke it open carefully. Inside was a spent cartridge.

  ‘It’s been fired, right enough,’ he said. ‘I imagine Jameson will be very interested to see this when he arrives.’

  ‘Well, good morning,’ came a bright voice behind them just then, and they whirled round to see Corky Beckwith, wearing the ecstatic expression of one who had just been presented with an enormous birthday cake and a gold watch for good measure. ‘I see the detecting duo have turned up something delicious for the pot.’

  ‘What do you want, Corky?’ said Freddy.

  Corky affected a look of innocence.

  ‘Why must you always assume I want something?’ he said. ‘Perhaps I come to give you moral support. For are we not colleagues, comrades, bosom bedfellows in our chosen profession?’

  ‘Bosom bedfellows? What a ghastly thought,’ said Freddy. ‘Now, do scoot off, there’s a good chap. Angela and I have important things to do.’

  ‘Oh, it’s Angela and I, is it?’ said Corky. ‘I see—so this is how you get your stories, yes? By seducing decaying gentlewomen, and taking advantage of their vanity and joy at having ensnared a young man in their declining years to induce them to tell you everything.’

  ‘Freddy, if you wanted to whack him one on the nose with that boot, I shouldn’t do a thing to stop you,’ said Angela with some energy.

  ‘Just my joke, madam—although who am I to say whether it mayn’t have just a soupçon of truth to it? Naturally, I should never dream of suggesting such a thing in print, however,’ said Corky with a leer.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Angela, drawing herself up magnificently and taking a step towards him. ‘Because if you did, I should be forced to sue firstly you, then that loathsome rag of yours for employing you, and finally your mother for giving birth to you in the first place. I have lots of money and a solicitor who has nothing better to do at present, so don’t think it’s an idle threat.’

  Her voice came out as a hiss, and for the briefest of moments she looked like a mythical and terrifying creature poised to tear the eyes from the head of a poor innocent soul lying bound to a rock. Corky flinched.

  ‘I suggest you apologize to the lady,’ said Freddy.

  Corky looked sulky and muttered an apology.

  ‘Now then, as I said, the best thing you can do is to leave us alone,’ said Freddy. ‘The police will be arriving shortly, and as you can see we’ve some new evidence to show them.’

  ‘So I gather,’ said Corky. ‘But why waste it on the police? I mean to say, by all means give it to them later, but can’t you see that you hold in your hands this very minute a most sensational story in itself?’ His face assumed a pitying look. ‘Freddy, Freddy, you can’t expect to make a success of this business if you fail to think of the business first and foremost. Justice is all very well, but the most important thing is that it be seen to be done. The general public have a right to know all that concerns them, and this shotgun is vital evidence. Think of the dramatic impact a photograph of this weapon would have, when splashed across half a page with below it the caption, “This is the gun that killed an innocent man and sent a guilty one to hang.”’ For a moment, his expression held a touch of the sublime. ‘Why, such a scoop would be the making of us both!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Freddy. ‘It’s simply not done to interfere with a police investigation. You can’t just go running off with evidence because you think it might make a pretty picture for the evening edition. This gun is probably covered with finger-prints and you’ll ruin them.’

  ‘Pshaw!’ said Corky. ‘Does anyone care about finger-prints these days? I thought they were old hat.’

  ‘Sorry, Corky,’ said Freddy. ‘We’re giving this to the police and that’s that.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Corky. ‘You have me once again. But you can’t blame me for trying.’

  He sniffed and turned to walk away. Freddy set the gun down and bent to put on his boot, and quick as lightning Corky turned back and made a dart for it.

  ‘A-ha!’ he exclaimed in triumph, and made off at a run, the gun under his arm. Freddy, still wearing only one boot, immediately set off after him and the two young men disappeared around the back of the church.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Angela. She picked up the boot and hurried after them.

  In the churchyard, she found Corky weaving in and out of the headstones, pursued by Freddy, who was a fast enough runner but somewhat hampered by being only semi-shod. In and out they dodged, Corky giggling maniacally all the while, until they had run all the way around the church and were once more at the front. By this time Corky, who was not the fittest of men, was starting to flag slightly. He paused for an instant to decide which way to go, and in that instant Freddy took an enormous leap and brought him down to the ground. For the next few moments all that could be seen was a mass of flailing arms and legs as Freddy tried to wrestle the shotgun out from under Corky. Meanwhile, Angela stood at a safe distance and glanced about her, wondering whether she ought to go for help, for the fight seemed evenly matched and looked as though it might go on for hours.

  ‘Get off me!’ cried Corky. ‘I’ll have you for assault.’

  But Freddy was not listening. He had managed to turn Corky over and had a knee on his chest as he tried to wrench the gun out of his hands. There was a struggle and then Corky somehow managed to bring the gun up. It clipped Freddy on the side of the head and he yelled and loosened his hold. In a trice, Corky was on his feet, and before anyone could say anything pointed the gun at Freddy, who was panting on the ground, and pulled the trigger. There was a loud click. Freddy gasped in outrage and called Corky an unrepeatable name.

  ‘Ouch!’ exclaimed Corky, and dropped the gun, for Angela had just stepped up and rapped him smartly on the knuckles with Freddy’s boot.

  ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she said severely, as Corky sucked his hand and regarded her balefully. ‘You idiot,’ she went on, as Freddy picked up the shotgun and got to his feet. ‘If that had been loaded you’d be the one with your photograph in the paper tonight. You can’t possibly be that keen on getting a story, surely.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ said Corky feebly.

  ‘Rot,’ said Freddy. ‘You did it deliberately. Why, you might have killed me! And not only that, but if there were any finger-prints on it before, then you’ve rubbed them all off. You ass, Corky. What do you think the police are going to say when they find out?’

  ‘Oh, and of course you’re going to tell them,’ said Corky. His voice had become a whine. ‘Not exactly honourable, is it, to squeak on a fellow reporter.’

  ‘You hardly deserve the title,’ said Freddy with dignity. ‘And that’s beside the point, anyway. This is a murder weapon, and people will be asking questions about it in court. For all we know, someone’s life may have depended on those finger-prints.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the murder,’ said Corky, looking suddenly thoughtful. ‘Did I hear you say you’d called the police?’

  ‘Yes, and we’re expecting them at any minute,’ said Freddy.

  ‘I see,’ said Corky. ‘Very well, then, I shall leave you to it. I’m
awfully sorry about firing the gun at you, old thing. It was just in the heat of the moment and all that. Of course I knew it wasn’t loaded.’

  He smiled genially then turned on his heel and walked off.

  ‘What is he up to?’ said Angela. ‘I can’t believe he’s just going to leave us and miss out on the fun.’

  ‘I expect he’s remembered some kittens he forgot to drown earlier,’ said Freddy, rubbing his head. ‘Let’s just be thankful that he’s gone for now. He’s given me a ringing headache.’

  ‘Perhaps I oughtn’t to have threatened to sue him,’ said Angela. ‘I suppose it might have provoked him slightly.’

  ‘Oh, no. He doesn’t need to be provoked to act like an imbecile,’ said Freddy. ‘He can do that wholly off his own bat. You were rather marvellous in your fury, though. I've never seen you in a temper before.’

  ‘Yes, well, he is quite extraordinarily irritating,’ said Angela. ‘I don’t wonder he annoys you. Now, then, I think we ought to do something with this shotgun, just in case he comes back. Let’s go back to the vicarage and ask Mrs. Hunter to look after it, shall we?’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ said Freddy. ‘She will no doubt keep us talking for another hour and that will fill the time nicely until Inspector Jameson gets here.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Inspector Jameson finally arrived in Banford Green at about half past two, later than he intended. His superintendent had caught him as he was about to leave, and had kept him in conversation about a blackmail case which the super insisted required delicate handling, for it involved a minor politician. Jameson listened politely and agreed that everything possible ought to be done to keep the case out of the public eye, but all the while he was fighting the urge to tap his feet and glance at his watch. Finally, the super let him go, and he hurried down the stairs and out of the building. Once in his car and safely on the Surrey road, he turned his mind to the matter at hand. Mrs. Marchmont’s hurried telephone-call had given him little information but had lifted his spirits more than he dared to admit to himself. Could she really have found the evidence necessary to exonerate Norman Tipping—and by extension, Kathie Montgomery—from the charge of murder? Sergeant Primm had telephoned the night before to inform him of their arrest, and Jameson had congratulated him, outwardly pleased at the progress that had been made on the case. Inwardly, however, he had hated himself for the part he had played in putting Kathie in gaol, and he had spent a sleepless night trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing. He hoped very much that Angela’s evidence could be relied upon. She was not the type to exaggerate the importance of a thing, but on the other hand she was not of the police, and therefore could not be expected to know what sort of evidence would stand up in court and what would not. Still, she had never let him down in the past. Perhaps she had succeeded in finding something that the police had missed.