Where Death and Danger Go

by V M Knox

  ‘Mr Ward. Superintendent Morris.’

  ‘I remember you. Not in uniform today?’

  ‘I now only wear it for official duties.’

  Ward’s eyes shifted to Clement. ‘And you?’

  ‘Helping us with our investigations,’ Morris said.

  ‘Haven’t seen any police for a while. I figured Chisholm finding that pistol would have you all returning. Are you any closer to identifying that body?’

  ‘We are pursuing inquiries, Mr Ward,’ Morris told him.

  ‘I understand you were in Ramsey the day the German landed?’ Clement asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘When did you return home?’

  Ward seemed to stare into the distance. ‘Around noon that day.’

  ‘I imagine you would know most of the people hereabouts. Did you see any strangers either in town or around here?’

  Ward scratched his head. ‘Not that I recall. I stayed at The Angel in Ramsey then went to Miller’s for the seed and produce I ordered, then I drove home. It wasn’t till I got back that I heard about the Jerry landing in Chisholm’s field.’

  ‘Do you recall seeing any cars you didn’t recognise on the roads on your way home?’

  ‘I remember seeing a few police vehicles so I knew something was amiss.’

  Clement paused. If Ward had been in Ramsey, there was little he could add. Morris seemed to sense there were no further questions.

  ‘Well, thank you for your time. Should you remember anything else perhaps you would be good enough to call Cambridge Police,’ Morris added.

  Clement saw Morris check his watch. It was already mid-afternoon and perhaps Morris was hungry.

  ‘Is Ramsey the nearest town of any size, Mr Ward?’ Clement asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there a public house in Wistow?’

  ‘No. But there are several in Ramsey. The Plough would be best for you. You can get a meal there too.’

  ‘Thank you, again,’ Clement said.

  He and Morris returned to the car and drove away. Ward stood with his dog, watching them leave.

  Clement stared through the windscreen at nothing in particular. ‘Why would someone who parachuted into England, kill the person who came to meet them? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Unless he already knew where he was and didn’t need the contact?’ Morris said glancing at Clement.

  ‘So why send the contact to the rendezvous when he could have just remained in the car?’

  Morris didn’t respond.

  Clement allowed the thought to flow through his mind. Was it possible the man was sent to his death? It didn’t seem likely. ‘So our man arrives and walks to the copse to make the rendezvous. There he is killed. The killer then buries the body, leaves the copse, with the parachute and meets a third person who is waiting in the car. Or, he drives himself away knowing where the car is parked and how to get to where he is going. You know, Arthur, given the hour of day the shots were fired, whoever came to meet the parachutist would’ve needed to be already in the vicinity the night before the rendezvous. Could we go to Ramsey before returning to Cambridge?’

  ‘Of course.’ Morris pulled onto the road and headed north.

  ‘Let’s check The Angel first. That way we can check on Ward’s alibi at the same time,’ Clement said as they drove into Ramsey. Morris parked the car in the High Street and they walked into the tiny inn that fronted directly onto the street. Once inside, Clement could see why Ward had recommended a different public house. The Angel was a working man’s pub, the sort of inn rarely, if ever, frequented by women, with little in the way of decoration or comfort. Clement surmised that any accommodation would be similarly spartan. Morris showed the publican his warrant card and asked to see the register. Opening the book, Morris saw only one person had stayed on the night of January the thirty-first. ‘Do you remember seeing any strangers in town, especially a man of medium height, in his mid-to-late forties, wearing a coat and trousers with turn-ups? The cloth had a thin blue stripe in the weave?’

  The innkeeper slowly shook his head but he didn’t speak.

  ‘Did you see any unfamiliar vehicles that day?’ Clement added.

  Again the publican shook his head. ‘No one other than my locals come here.’

  ‘Thank you. If you remember anything unusual about that night, please call me at Cambridge Police.’ Morris left his card on the counter. Clement turned to face the patrons; all eyes were on him and Morris. No one spoke.

  ‘Not very forthcoming were they?’ Clement said quietly as they walked back to the car.

  ‘Decidedly frosty. I’ll ask Sergeant Kendall to check any black market activities in Ramsey, paying particular attention to The Angel and Mr Ward’s visits to town.’

  ‘At least Ward was telling the truth about being there. Where to next?’

  ‘Are you hungry, Clement?’ Morris asked opening the car door.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then it’s The Plough next, I think,’ Morris said, starting the engine. ‘It’s a bit late but we might be lucky.’

  The Plough was at the northern end of Ramsey and stood at the end of a line of two-storey buildings that overlooked a pond of reasonable size, a Virginia creeper covering the whole façade. At the side of the inn was a narrow lane that Clement guessed led to the rear of the hotel. Stepping from the car, Clement looked around. Opposite, the road curved around a church of considerable size and beyond it and the graveyard were some very high stone walls. Set further back was an imposing but ruined gatehouse.

  ‘The Abbey School is behind the fence,’ Morris said. ‘The estate used to be a twelfth-century monastery, then the home of the Lords De Ramsey until about a decade ago when it was given to the school.’

  Clement opened the door to The Plough. Inside was dark. No one was there. Several tables and chairs occupied the front space near the window. Towards the rear was the bar and behind that a door with the word ‘Private’ painted on it in red. To the left was a narrow staircase that led upstairs. Morris hit the bell on the counter. A young woman of approximately twenty appeared.

  ‘Can we get something to eat?’ Morris asked.

  ‘It’s lamb stew today. I think there’s enough left for you two gents.’

  ‘That will do us nicely. And two teas, when you’re ready,’ Morris added. Checking his watch. ‘How much?’

  ‘That will be 2/6 each,’ she said. Morris placed two half-crowns on the counter.

  The girl disappeared, doubtless to place their order, then returned and scooping up the money began to clean the counter. Morris waited by the bar. ‘Do you recall the German who landed in these parts a few months ago?’

  ‘Of course! It was all the talk for weeks. And in the papers. He didn’t cause any trouble though. Broke his ankle on landing. The Home Guard took him away. He was at Ramsey Police Station for a bit. You reporters?’

  Morris reached for his warrant card.

  ‘I heard about him finding that pistol,’ the girl said. ‘I’m guessing that’s why you’re here again.’

  Clement looked up. Morris was frowning.

  ‘Can I ask you about that time, Miss…?’ Morris called.

  ‘Bathgate. Cariss Bathgate.’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ a man said, entering the bar. ‘I’m the licensee. What do you want to know?’

  ‘They’re policemen, Dad.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Morris pulled out his warrant card again. ‘Do you recall seeing any unfamiliar people or vehicles around the village that day or in the days before the German landed?’

  ‘Unfamiliar cars? I don’t think so; what with the petrol rationing, you don’t see many these days.’

  ‘Yes, Dad. Remember. That swish one with the convertible top. Not like any car I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very posh. And cost a pretty penny, I’ll be bound. Never seen it before or since.’

  ‘Do you know what type it was?’ Morris asked.
/>   ‘No. But I would recognise it again if I saw it.’

  Morris waited, the publican went on. ‘Flash! Light green it was, with a convertible roof, cream coloured canvas. A good thing he only had two suitcases, because the boot wasn’t big. And there was no back seat.’

  ‘Two suitcases?’ Morris asked. Clement caught his eye. Morris went on, ‘Do you remember anything about the driver?’

  Bathgate drew in a long breath. ‘He booked a room for the night but he left early the next morning so I didn’t get to talk to him. Although he wasn’t exactly the chatty type.’

  ‘What type would you say he was, Mr Bathgate?’ Clement asked, approaching the bar.

  ‘Toff. Not from around these parts. But it’s hard to tell. Once they get that public school accent, there’s no telling where they’re from.’

  ‘Did he sign the register?’ Morris asked.

  ‘Must have. I’ll get it,’ Bathgate said and left the main bar.

  A few minutes later the man returned. He placed a leather-bound book on the bar and thumbed back through the pages. ‘Night of thirty-first of January.’ Bathgate ran his finger down the page. ‘Here it is. Gave his name as Smith. Didn’t believe it. But then they usually have a girl with them when they give that name.’

  ‘And he didn’t?’ Morris asked.

  ‘No.’ The publican paused, a slow frown forming. ‘He did meet someone though, as I recollect. Not here. Across the way, there.’ Bathgate pointed through the window at the road on the other side of the pond.

  ‘Did they come back here?’ Morris asked.

  ‘I don’t think he was that way inclined. You can always tell by the bed sheets if there’s been any activity, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Did the man Mr Smith met also stay here?’

  Bathgate shook his head.

  ‘What address did Mr Smith give you?’ Morris asked.

  Bathgate looked again at the register. ‘Cambridge. Not much help, is it?’

  ‘This person Mr Smith met outside, was he local?’ Clement asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’d have known him if he was. Lived in Ramsey all my life.’

  ‘Can you describe this other man?’

  Bathgate gazed through the window as though trying to remember. ‘Too long ago. I couldn’t really see his face. He wasn’t as tall as our Mr Smith. Ordinary, really.’

  ‘Approximate age?’

  ‘Hard to say. Older than Smith, but not elderly.’

  ‘And you’ve never seen him before?’

  ‘Nor since.’

  ‘And Mr Smith stayed here that night?’

  ‘Yes. He ate in his room and left early.’

  ‘Where was the car?’

  ‘Parked out back overnight. He was insistent about that. But as I said, he left early.’

  ‘Did you see him leave?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing left in his room?’

  Bathgate shook his head. ‘But I’ll tell you this; that man he met across the way there. From different ends of the social order those two and no mistake.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Mr Bathgate?’ Clement asked.

  ‘The clothes. Regardless of the name, Smith was gentry. Flashy car, public school accent, gentleman’s clothes and upper class manners; especially when it came to giving orders. That man he met, over there,’ Bathgate said nodding again towards the road, ‘he was no gentleman. His clothes were old and worn, never seen a tailor. Trousers even had turn-ups.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Can you describe this Mr Smith?’ Morris asked.

  Bathgate leaned into the corner of the bar and gripped his chin as though thinking. ‘Tall, slim build with fair hair. Cut quite short as I recall. About thirty, and like I said, well-dressed with a posh accent.’

  ‘Anything else about him? Any distinctive marks? Anything about his manner or stance?’ Morris asked.

  ‘Anything at all, Mr Bathgate, that made him memorable – like a speech impediment or a limp?’ Clement added.

  Bathgate drew in his upper lip. ‘He was…’ Bathgate paused. ‘Cocky. He had big teeth and a silly grin on his face the whole time. Made you wonder if he wasn’t simple.’

  ‘And the man he met?’ Clement added.

  ‘Like I said, he didn’t stay here so I didn’t get a good look at him. Nothing much comes to mind. I saw them meet. They exchanged a few words then parted.’

  ‘The shorter man; which way did he go when he left?’ Clement asked.

  ‘Back into town. He walked quickly, with his hands in his coat pockets. Now I think about it, he wasn’t a farmer.’

  ‘What makes you say that, Mr Bathgate?’ Morris said.

  ‘Farmers walk slowly in town and with a longer stride. No, he wasn’t a farmer.’

  ‘What would you say, judging by his clothes, was his occupation?’ Morris asked.

  ‘Not a shopkeeper. Nor a clerk. A labourer of some kind would be my guess.’

  ‘He had two suitcases. Mr Smith that is,’ Cariss said on re-entering the room, a plate of hot food in each hand.

  ‘They already know that, Cariss. Besides, they want to know what he looked like, girl, not his luggage.’

  ‘Anything either of you can remember would be helpful,’ Clement added. ‘Can you recall, Miss Bathgate, if he took both his suitcases to his room?’

  ‘Yes. I thought that was odd.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, why would he need two suitcases? He was hardly going to dress for dinner which he ended up having in his room on his own. Why would he want so many clothes for one night?’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Bathgate,’ Morris smiled and the girl left them. Clement glanced at Morris. The girl’s comment confirmed Clement’s suspicion that the second suitcase most likely contained a wireless transmitter. He heard the swing door to the kitchen close.

  Morris returned his gaze to the publican. ‘About the car…’

  ‘Caused quite a stir.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No one hereabouts would have ever seen anything like that before. Even old Harry Hardacre came to have a look.’

  ‘Mr Hardacre is acquainted with cars, I gather?’ Morris asked.

  ‘Has the garage in town. Said he’d read about the make but I don’t remember what it was. I knew I’d never heard of it. But he’ll remember. Talked about it for weeks.’

  ‘Everyone seems to have known about the car,’ Morris added.

  ‘Small place and fancy car. Bound to bring the lads out. Although it was parked out the back. He insisted on that. Smith that is; didn’t want it parked in the street.’

  ‘Did he give a reason?’ Clement asked.

  ‘Didn’t want the local kids touching it, I reckon.’

  ‘Mr Hardacre’s garage is where?’ Morris asked.

  ‘Out the door turn right and take the first on your right. Can’t miss it,’ Bathgate told Morris.

  Finishing the meal they thanked the publican and left.

  An elderly man sat in a frayed armchair in the doorway to the mechanic’s garage. Beside him was an equally ancient dog.

  ‘Mr Hardacre?’ Morris asked.

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I am wondering if you remember a car that was here in Ramsey about four months ago? A convertible car. I understand it was green with…’

  ‘Oh, the Lagonda. Yes, I remember it.’

  ‘Have you seen it again since that day?’

  ‘No. Just the once. It was parked out back of The Plough. My boy Robert wheeled me around to see it. Quite a machine and not a mark on it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hardacre.’

  ‘That all?’ he said, his rheumy eyes darting to Morris. ‘I figured that gun found on Chisholm’s place would have you returning. So the boy in the flash car is involved, is he?’

  ‘You know the owner?’

  ‘Not personally. Perhaps you should ask the De Ramseys. Although I hear His Lordship
is with his regiment in the Far East now.’ The old man closed his eyes as if to say that’s all you’re getting from me.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ a voice said coming towards them. The man wiped his hands on an oily cloth. ‘I’m Robert Hardacre. My father grew up on the De Ramsey Estate. His Lordship isn’t the most popular of men.’

  Clement would liked to have known why but the old man appeared to have fallen asleep.

  ‘Please thank your father for his help,’ Morris said.

  Clement and Morris walked back to where the police car was parked outside The Plough. Clement stood beside the car, staring at the old Abbey ruins. His gaze fixed on the spot where, so Bathgate had told them, Smith had met with another man wearing trousers with turn-ups. It was beside a level grassed area where a gravel drive led to the ruined gatehouse. Centuries old and made of stone, the gatehouse had a central arch surrounded by a twenty foot high stone wall that extended on both sides of the ancient structure. To the left the wall extended for some fifty yards before turning at right angles towards the church and an enclosed graveyard. To the right of the arch and set within the wall was a mullion window. The massive wooden double gate was closed. Clement frowned. ‘Does the Abbey School have access to the gatehouse, do you know, Arthur?’

  ‘I don’t. But it’s possible, given its location. The school is just behind that high wall.’

  Clement stared at the twenty foot wall that extended down the right side of the gate then turned left running along the edge of the street that headed out of Ramsey.

  ‘Is there a room behind that window?’ Clement asked, his gaze fixed on the ruin. He didn’t wait for Morris to respond. Crossing the road, Clement strode towards the street to the right of the gatehouse. A low narrow doorway with a small, ancient wooden door and carved pointed lintel faced directly onto the street. He tried the handle but it was locked and looked as though it had been for many years. Clement stared up. He could see the rough jagged edges of the ruined stonework but he couldn’t see if a room remained within the structure.

  ‘Care to share your thoughts, Clement?’ Morris said, now beside him.