Murder in the Cotswolds

by Nancy Buckingham

  Watching him, Kate wondered with a sigh if this was where she was going to get egg on her face. Kate Maddox, playing the super sleuth. It would give all the lads in the division such a good laugh at her expense, but what the hell. If this did prove to be murder, the laugh would be on them.

  As things turned out, though, she felt more like weeping than laughing.

  Using Boulter’s CID car, Kate drove straight over to Peterscombe. Somehow it seemed necessary that she should be the one to break the news of George Prescott’s death to his poor sister, whose grief would be made that much worse by agonies of remorse.

  Joan Prescott was an early bird. She was out watering the lupins in her front border when Kate drew up outside the cottage.

  “Why, Chief Inspector Maddox, what brings you here?” Her eyes behind the winged spectacles flew wide open in alarm. “You ... you haven’t come to say that you’ve arrested my brother?”

  Kate shook her head. “Can we go inside, please? I have something to tell you.”

  The living-room was a blaze of brilliance, the morning sun glinting cheerfully from the array of polished brassware.

  “What is it?” Joan Prescott’s hands fluttered vaguely.

  “Sit down, please.” The little woman dithered and Kate had to coax her into a chair. “I have some bad news, I’m afraid. Your brother is dead.”

  There was a long moan of anguish. “Oh no ... please, it can’t be true.”

  “I’m afraid it is true, Miss Prescott. Your brother was found at his desk early this morning by the office cleaner. He must have been dead for some hours.”

  “A heart attack, of course,” she murmured. “The shock ...”

  “The exact cause of his death isn’t yet established,” Kate said carefully. “Miss Prescott, did you tell your brother that I’d been to see you?”

  She looked amazed at the question. “Well, of course I did, I phoned him right away. I had to ... well, warn him, didn’t I, that you’d found out he didn’t really spend that evening here with me?”

  “What did he say?”

  Joan Prescott gulped down a sob. “He was very shocked, very angry with me. I told him how sorry I was, that I couldn’t help it. But he wouldn’t listen. He ... he just rang off. And now he’s dead. His poor heart couldn’t stand the strain. Oh, Georgie, dear Georgie, I’ll never be able to forgive myself for letting you down.”

  Just who had let whom down was a moot point.

  “Miss Prescott, when I was here yesterday you said that your brother didn’t tell you why he was so anxious you should provide him with a false alibi. Are you sure he gave you no hint of what it was he thought the police might accuse him of?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “Georgie wouldn’t tell me.”

  “So what did he tell you? He must have given you some reason for asking you to perjure yourself for him.”

  “He just said ... that it was very important, and that I had to help him.”

  “And you didn’t insist on knowing why?”

  “Georgie told me he couldn’t explain, it was all too complicated and I wasn’t to ask any questions. He said ... he said that the police were nosing around and I had to help him by saying he was here that evening.”

  “I see. Thank you, Miss Prescott. I’m afraid that I’ll have to ask you to make an identification of your brother’s body. There’s no immediate rush. I’ll have someone get in touch with you.”

  Kate hated having to leave her in this condition, but time was pressing. She asked for the name of a sympathetic neighbour, who came at once in response to a phone call.

  Leaving the cottage a few minutes later, Kate headed back to Chipping Bassett. There were Prescott’s two women clerks to interview, and Alison Knight might also be able to provide some helpful information. Kate wanted to get the investigation rolling before reporting to her superintendent. Otherwise, she was afraid Jolly Joliffe might put the kibosh on the outlandish idea that George Prescott’s death was another case of murder.

  Back at Prescott’s office, Kate found three Scenes of Crime men busy at work, photographing and dusting for fingerprints, and carefully searching the room. The two women clerks, still in their outdoor clothes, were just having their prints taken.

  “It’s not very comfortable for you here,” Kate said to them when they’d washed their hands. “Why don’t we walk along to the police station? We can talk there over a cup of tea.”

  They agreed nervously. No doubt they were wondering, as the office cleaner had done, what would happen about their jobs now that the boss was dead. Kate didn’t hold that against them. Jobs were hard to find these days.

  In the interview room, she didn’t get anything very useful out of them. They’d last seen Mr. Prescott just before five-thirty yesterday, when he left the office. He hadn’t said anything about intending to return later to do some more work. A few minutes afterwards, both women had cleared their desks and also left. Constantly glancing at each other for moral support, they agreed that Mr. Prescott had been rather on edge for the past few weeks.

  “As if he had something on his mind,” said the elder of the two, whose name was Sugden. “Something worrying him, you know.”

  That checked with what Alison Knight had told Kate.

  “Was he in the habit of going back to the office during the evening?”

  “Well, he did now and then.” Not being there themselves out of hours, they couldn’t be sure how often, but sometimes he left work for them to do next morning.

  “Letters to type, you mean?”

  “Well, yes. Occasionally.”

  “Occasionally? Not usually?”

  “Well, he’d sometimes draft out a letter for one of us to type. But more often he’d dictate his letters when we were there.”

  “Did he ever type his own letters?”

  “Oh no. Mr. Prescott never did that.”

  “Never?”

  Mrs. Sugden looked at her colleague questioningly, then shook her head. “I don’t remember him ever doing any typing himself.”

  Had there been, Kate probed, any strange or unexplained callers at the office recently? No. Any out-of-the-ordinary phone calls? No. Any serious problems with clients? No. Any overheard conversations or arguments that might give some clue to his death? No. What about a woman in Mr. Prescott’s life? Was there anyone? They looked at each other again. No, not that they knew of.

  Kate let the two women go, telling them not to return to the office for the time being. A report was handed to her of a DC’s visit to the Bedford Court Hotel. Yes, Mr. Prescott had been missed this morning; his bed hadn’t been slept in. No, they hadn’t done anything about it yet (“It’s not wise in the hotel business to be too quick off the mark when a gentleman guest spends a night out, you know”). He’d been in for dinner the previous evening. Anything unusual? Well, to be honest he had been drinking rather heavily just lately, and last night was no exception. He’d gone out again at about eight-thirty, mentioning something to a fellow guest about having some business to attend to.

  A nice man, Mr. Prescott. Well, he had been fond of a flutter. And the drinking sometimes made him morose. But no trouble. Wasn’t it shocking that he was dead?

  A knock on Kate’s door heralded Sergeant Boulter.

  “From the look on your face, Tim, you’ve got something for me.”

  “I’ll say it’s something. Alien dabs, plastered all over Prescott’s office. So you were spot on about it being murder, not suicide.”

  Why the hell was he looking so almighty pleased, when he’d had to admit that she’d been right and he’d been wrong? Boulter was obviously enjoying the situation, playing it for maximum drama. Kate felt distinctly uneasy.

  “Have these fingerprints been checked yet?” she asked. “Is it a known villain?”

  “Depends how you mean that.”

  “Get to the point, Sergeant.”

  “Well, Harry Silverdale was doing the prints. He found six sets altogether. Three sets he was
able to eliminate immediately as belonging to Prescott himself and the two clerks. Presumably, of the other three sets, two of them belong to Mrs. Knight and Mrs. Hemmings, the cleaner. But one of those three sets had a peculiarity—what looked like a minute scar on the forefinger of the right hand. Harry felt sure he’d seen it before, and very recently. He beetled back here to check against the Personal Details File, and sure enough, he was right. The prints matched exactly.”

  “Whose, for God’s sake?” But Kate already knew the answer. “Richard Gower’s, that’s whose. Dozens of his dabs there were, as if he’d given the place a thorough going-over.”

  You want out, Kate, don’t you? Out of this horrible mess, off this wretched case, back to being a plain inspector on Wye Division where you could handle the job without this tearing of your guts? But there’s no way back now. You’ve just got to plough on to the bitter end.

  Kate had ordered that Gower should be brought in at once for interrogation. While she was waiting, trying to keep busy on what seemed useless paperwork, she had a phone call to say that Mrs. Alison Knight wanted to speak to her.

  “Okay to put her through, ma’am?”

  “Er, yes ... right.”

  “Kate, I’m at Radleys in Great Bedham, and someone’s just told me that Mr. Prescott has been found dead ... that he killed himself. Is it true?”

  “He is dead, I’m afraid, Alison. He was found at his office early this morning by Mrs. Hemmings. The precise cause of his death hasn’t yet been established.”

  “Oh dear, I was so hoping it would turn out to be just a rumour. What a terrible thing!” Alison’s voice was tense with agitation. “I was told that he left a note ... I mean, explaining why he did it.”

  Kate was afraid that tension must be showing in her own voice, too, but she tried to sound detached. “There was a note, yes, but I can’t go into details about it. I’m sure you understand that.”

  “Yes, of course, but ... oh dear, I don’t know what to say. It’s all so upsetting.”

  Kate had a thought. “Alison, do you happen to know Mr. Prescott’s sister?”

  “Joan? Yes, I’ve met her a few times. I suppose she’s been told the news by now. Poor thing! She doted on her brother. She must be absolutely devastated.”

  “She is. So I was wondering, could you perhaps go and see her? Miss Prescott needs all the support she can get at the moment.”

  “Of course I will, if you think it would help her. I can get away from here in a few minutes, and I’ll go straight over to Peterscombe.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it. By the way,” Kate added, though it was really pointless now, “we’ll be needing your fingerprints for elimination purposes.”

  “My fingerprints? Why on earth?”

  “It’s just routine, Alison. Nine tenths of police work is.”

  The door opened and a PC looked in. “Gower has arrived, ma’am. He’s been taken to the interview room.”

  Kate nodded, and said into the phone, “I have to go now, Alison. I’ll be in touch.”

  “What the devil is this all about?” Gower demanded truculently as she entered the small, bare-furnished interview room. Tim Boulter, in attendance, was making no effort at all to conceal his satisfaction at having nailed their prime suspect and very little effort to conceal his amusement at Kate’s discomfiture.

  “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Gower?” She took a seat at the table herself.

  “No thanks, I’m not reckoning to stay. In the car coming here your men wouldn’t explain anything. So what’s this all in aid of?”

  “Have you heard about Mr. George Prescott’s death?”

  Before he could answer, the sergeant interjected, “I should remind you, sir, that you’re still under caution.”

  Gower ignored him. “Yes, I’ve heard. But what’s that got to do with dragging me here?”

  “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about Mr. Prescott’s death?”

  His scathing look suggested that she was an imbecile. “Trying to pin this one on me, too? It was suicide, Chief Inspector, or hadn’t you heard?”

  “That’s what we were intended to think.”

  He went rigid, then slowly subsided into the chair. “Intended to think? You mean it wasn’t suicide?”

  Kate dropped her hands to her lap and gripped them together in an effort to stop them trembling. “Mr. Gower, I put it to you that yesterday evening you went to Mr. Prescott’s office, and there you administered a quantity of poison sufficient to kill him.”

  “You must be out of your mind. What the hell do you think you’re doing, throwing out wild accusations without a shred of evidence to support them?”

  “We have evidence, and far more than a shred. I think I should tell you at this point that a large number of your fingerprints have been found in Mr. Prescott’s office. How do you explain that?”

  Gower’s truculence vanished. Kate watched his swiftly changing expression as he reassessed the situation. Finally he said, “Can I have a word with you in private?”

  “No, you may not. The sergeant remains, and he’s taking notes of this conversation. As he reminded you, you are still under caution.”

  Gower glared at her with fury. Kate waited, letting him take his own time. Eventually he muttered, “Okay, I admit it, I was there. I can hardly deny it, can I? But I had nothing to do with Prescott’s death. It’s crazy to suggest I did.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About ... seven-thirty, I’d say. Earlier in the evening, anyway.”

  “Earlier than what?”

  “Earlier than Prescott was killed. It had to be. He wasn’t even there then.”

  “I see. You forced an entrance to the premises, is that what you’re saying?”

  Gower shook his head impatiently. “I didn’t need to use force. I called round just after lunch on a pretext of wanting a word with Prescott. I knew he wouldn’t be there, because I’d just seen him going into the Wagon and Horses. I told the secretary I’d call back another time, and I asked if I could use the toilet. I slipped the latch of the window, so I could get in later.”

  “The toilet window latch was closed when we examined the offices this morning,” Boulter intervened. He was damn nearly grinning, and Kate glanced away quickly.

  “I closed it myself after I climbed in,” Gower said. “I left by the door.”

  “What time did you leave?” queried Kate sharply.

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t there much over half an hour. So ... soon after eight, I suppose.”

  “You appear to have searched Mr. Prescott’s office. Why?”

  A trace of belligerence reappeared. “I was trying to get things moving, that’s why. I’d told you about Belle Latimer’s suspicions concerning Prescott, yet you seemed unable—or unwilling—to take any action. I figured if I could find some definite evidence that he’d been helping himself to the Leisure Centre funds, you’d be forced to do something.”

  “I was doing something,” Kate insisted, her vehemence causing Boulter to glance up from his notebook in surprise.

  “That’s not how it looked,” Gower retorted. “You seemed too bloody intent on nailing me for Belle Latimer’s death.”

  Kate wanted to rage at him for his stupidity, his naiveté, but she held her anger in check. “And what did your illegal entry produce? Did you find what you were searching for?”

  Gower surprised her with a triumphant sneer. “As a matter of fact, I did. Are you disappointed, Detective Chief Inspector Maddox? Does it spoil all your fatuous theories about me being the villain of the piece?”

  Kate kept her voice level. “What did you find?”

  “This.” From a side pocket of his jacket he took a small red notebook. He handed it over, and Kate flicked through the pages. It was more than half filled with a mass of figures, dates, and initials.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “That’s what I spent hours last night trying to decipher. It’s a record of Pres
cott’s creative accountancy.”

  “Money he creamed off from the various Leisure Centre collections?”

  “That must have been just small change to him. My guess is that Prescott was gambling in a big way, so to try and cover his losses he was doing a juggling act with his clients’ money. It’s difficult to get a complete picture, but it looks to me as if he was managing to stay one jump ahead of being rumbled. And all the time getting in deeper and deeper. I suppose, like so many gamblers, he thought that one day he’d strike lucky with a huge win that would put everything right all in one go.”

  Was it really a guess on Gower’s part that Prescott had been gambling in a big way? Or had he known it all along? The picture he painted certainly fitted the details of Prescott’s dealings with the bookmaker.

  “Where did you find this notebook?”

  “In Prescott’s desk.”

  “The desk drawers were locked,” Kate said curtly. “No sign of any damage was reported to me.”

  Gower’s face twisted in a tight smile. “There wasn’t meant to be any sign of damage. I had a quick look round the office first, but I guessed the desk was the obvious place. So ... I opened the drawers.”

  “It sounds to me as if you’ve done that sort of thing before.”

  “No comment.” He grinned wryly. “It would be nice if, instead of treating me as a dangerous criminal, you could manage a few words of thanks for finding this evidence.”

  “You expect thanks? Don’t you realise that if you hadn’t taken this notebook we’d have found it ourselves when we made a search this morning?”

  “How was I to know that you’d be searching the office? How was I to know that Prescott would be found dead?”

  Kate’s mind was darting along a new train of thought. Had Prescott, returning to his office late yesterday evening for some as yet unknown reason, discovered the loss of his secret notebook and realised that the game was up? Maybe her gut feeling was wrong. Maybe it had been suicide after all. Maybe he’d been keeping a dose of cyanide at hand in case of emergency.