Murder in the Cotswolds

by Nancy Buckingham

  “These things are sent to try us.” Mrs. Bertram smiled again, a very charming smile. “I sometimes think poor Henry is more tried by it than I am, the way he has to dance attendance on me.”

  “Nonsense, my dear,” her husband protested.

  Farrow said, “So I suppose it’s not a lot of use asking if you might have noticed anything unusual that night. You can’t see the road from here, can you?”

  “No,” Henry Bertram said, “we’re nicely tucked away from the noise. It’s very peaceful. The only sign of life we get is from our neighbour.” He waved a hand at Old Toll-House Cottage, just visible through the trees.

  “Ah yes.” Farrow glanced at his clipboard again. “Mrs. Alison Knight. I was hoping to see her, too, but apparently she’s out.”

  “She’d be at work, this time of day,” said Mrs. Bertram.

  “I’ll have to call back, then.” Farrow tut-tutted. “To save time, I suppose you couldn’t by any chance confirm whether or not Mrs. Knight was at home that evening?”

  The husband and wife glanced at one another, figuring it out.

  “Let’s see,” she said slowly, “it was the Tuesday, wasn’t it?”

  “Black Tuesday,” said her husband, pulling a face.

  “Oh, Henry, you are naughty.” She smiled apologetically at Farrow. “It wasn’t anything we could really grumble about, but it did seem a bit thoughtless at the time.”

  “What was that, madam?”

  “Well, Mrs. Knight was practising her singing at home that evening. She’s a member of the Troubadours, you know, and they’re rehearsing for King’s Rhapsody just now. It was a warm evening, such a relief after the spell of rain we’d had, and it was lovely to have the windows wide open. But after a while I had to ask Henry to shut the one in my bedroom, her voice was so loud.”

  “I wanted to phone and ask her to pipe down,” said Mr. Bertram.

  “But we couldn’t very well, could we, after having said only a few days before that we didn’t mind in the least. Only somehow it seemed extra loud that evening. I suppose the sound carried on the still air. And you know how it is when people practise, constantly stopping and going back a few bars. With the best will in the world it does get on your nerves a bit.” She looked anxious suddenly. “You won’t mention this to Mrs. Knight, will you, Officer? I’d hate her to think we’d been complaining about her to a policeman.”

  “Rely on me, madam.” Farrow consulted his clipboard again. “Mrs. Knight lives alone, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes. She’s divorced, you know.”

  “Far too many people get divorced far too easily these days, if you ask me,” Farrow declaimed. He and his first wife had divorced, but the Bertrams didn’t need to know that. “It must be a lonely life for a woman, living in an isolated place like this, all on her own.”

  The couple looked across at one another. Tempted, as even the nicest people are, to enjoy a spicy lit of gossip.

  “She does have friends, of course,” said the wife. She was willing to be drawn, Farrow surmised.

  “Other members of the Troubadours, I expect?”

  “Well yes, she does have them round sometimes, I believe. That wasn’t quite what I meant.”

  Farrow tucked the clipboard under his cap, to indicate that official business was over. This was just a cosy little chat.

  “One particular friend?” he suggested.

  “Well ... Henry and I think he must be a married man, from the way they’ve been so careful. We’ve just caught a glimpse of movement now and then that didn’t look like her, and we’ve heard a car drive off quite late. You can’t really condemn it these days, can you? I just hope his poor wife never finds out.”

  “Local chap, would you think?”

  “Oh, I really couldn’t say. I mean, we haven’t gone out of our way to spy on her.”

  Farrow could sense her pulling back from him. She felt guilty, of course, for gossiping about her neighbour.

  “Naturally not,” he said reassuringly. “It isn’t our business what other people do, is it? Takes all sorts, after all. Live and let live, I say.”

  With which string of platitudes, Farrow took his leave.

  * * * *

  “A very nice piece of work, Jack,” said Kate when he reported to her fifteen minutes later. “That’s just the sort of back-up alibi I expected Alison Knight to have fixed for herself, all ready and waiting for us if ever we got in the least suspicious about her and started to probe. She treated me to a sample of practising her singing role when I called on her, by appointment, on Sunday afternoon. So the alibi would have seemed plausible to me.”

  “How did she set it up?” asked Boulter. “Tape-recorder?”

  “Right, Tim. She’s got one of those twin-deck jobs that enable you to make your own edited recording. Packs a punch, too, I’d say ... plenty of volume to carry on ‘the still air.’”

  “She took a chance on the Bertrams ringing her to complain about the noise, and getting no answer.”

  “She could have left the phone off the hook. But in any case there was small risk they’d even try to get her. This woman’s a meticulous planner, Tim. Mrs. Bertram told Jack, remember, that they didn’t want to complain because they’d assured her only a few days before that they didn’t mind a bit about her practising. What would have prompted them to say that? Obviously an apology from Alison Knight. I reckon this is what we’re going to find each step of the way. Every last detail meticulously worked out.”

  Farrow had just left when the phone rang. It was the DC who’d been detailed to go and see Marjorie Sayers.

  “No question, ma’am, she recognised the photograph at once. It was the same woman.”

  “That’s great. Terrific. What was the name of the pub they were in?”

  “The Trout Inn at Steeple Haslop, ma’am. It was six weeks ago yesterday. April the ninth.”

  “Well done, Alan. Thanks.”

  The office manager looked round the door as she hung up. “Your aunt just phoned in, Kate, to say to tell you she’s got what you wanted all ready. Very mysterious, she was, but said you’d understand.”

  “I do. Thanks, Frank.”

  As the door closed, Kate turned to Boulter. “I’m nipping out again for a bit. I think the next move is to pull Latimer in for questioning. Will you go and fetch him? He’s to have no opportunity to get in touch with Alison Knight.”

  “Will do, guv.”

  Driving home to Stonebank Cottage, Kate pulled up outside Pearce’s Wine Store and purchased a bottle of the best malt whisky they stocked. She waved this in front of her aunt as she walked in.

  “Let’s see if you deserve this.”

  Proudly, Felix displayed the black-and-white print she’d been working on. It was a full-length picture of Alison Knight with her hair in a man’s short style under a deerstalker hat. No one would have guessed it had been faked.

  “Know something, Felix? You’re cleverer than you look.” Kate handed over the bottle. “Don’t drink it all. Save some for me tonight. We might have something to celebrate.”

  “Does that mean you’ve cracked it?”

  In answer, Kate laid a finger alongside her nose, before vanishing as quickly as she’d come.

  It took her six minutes to drive to the Winters’ cottage. Fred answered the door. This time he was pleased to see her. He even invited her inside, calling to his wife, “It’s that lady chief inspector again.”

  The living-room was cluttered with almost as many plants in pots as must have been growing in the greenhouse outside. Kate politely refused an offer of tea, politely deflected their questions about the progress of the case.

  “I’d like you to look at a photograph, Mr. Winter, and tell me if you think this could have been the person you saw using the phone-box that night. This is not a formal identification, you understand. I just want your opinion, for my own guidance.” She took the picture of Alison Knight from her shoulder bag and handed it over.

  “Is that
him ... the murderer?” asked the wife eagerly.

  “I can’t comment, Mrs. Winter.”

  Fred was studying the picture doubtfully, his lips pursed. “I dunno,” he muttered. “It was pretty dark by then, and I didn’t get a real good look at him.”

  “The call-box would have been lit,” Kate pointed out.

  “Aye, that’s right.” More weighty consideration. “Y’know, it could be him. He has the same kind of face, anyway, sort of long and narrow.” He started warming to the idea. “I reckon you’re right, missus, this is the same man I saw that night.”

  “I’m asking for your honest opinion, Mr. Winter. I don’t want you saying what you think I want to hear.”

  “No, ‘tisn’t that. But ... if I was a betting man I’d put my shirt on it. This is him.”

  “Ooh, Fred!” His wife was deeply impressed. “Be wanting my hubby as a witness in court, will you?”

  “We’re not at that stage yet, Mrs. Winter.” Kate was impatient to leave now. “Thank you very much for your help, and I’ll be in touch again soon.”

  Kate was back at the station five minutes before Boulter brought in Matthew Latimer. Informed of their arrival, she went straight to the interview room. Latimer, sitting at the table, rose to his feet as she entered. He looked bewildered more than angry.

  “I ... I don’t understand what ...”he began.

  “Sit down, please, Mr. Latimer. I have some questions to ask you. I propose to tape-record this interview. Sergeant, please caution Mr. Latimer.”

  Once the necessary preamble was over, she plunged straight in.

  “I want you to tell me the exact nature of your relationship with Mrs. Alison Knight.”

  Latimer blanched. He seemed unable to summon up any words. Kate prompted him. “Please answer me, Mr. Latimer. You and Mrs. Alison Knight ...”

  “I, er ... I have no relationship with her.”

  “I put it to you that on the evening of”—Kate consulted the notes she’d jotted down in preparation— “of Thursday, April the ninth, you were in a public house called the Trout Inn at Steeple Haslop in the company of Mrs. Knight.”

  Again Latimer looked dumbfounded, and again she had to prompt him.

  “Were you there with Mrs. Knight?”

  “I ... I may have been.”

  “I’d like a definite answer, please. Yes or no.”

  “Well, yes, I ... I did meet Mrs. Knight there once, quite by chance. I ... I bought her a drink, and ...”

  “You were observed over a period of time, and your attitude to one another appeared a lot more than merely friendly.”

  “Who said ... ?”

  “Never mind who, Mr. Latimer. I further put it to you that you had an intimate relationship with Mrs. Knight, that your wife discovered this and remonstrated with you very strongly.”

  “Belle ... Belle didn’t know who it was....”

  “Perhaps not. But she knew that you were involved with someone. Presumably, that’s why she changed her will and disinherited you.”

  “It seems so unfair, so damned unfair, just for a small transgression.”

  “A small transgression? You and Mrs. Knight were plotting to get your hands on your wife’s fortune. Isn’t that right?”

  “No!” He shouted the denial. “Absolutely not. Good God, are you suggesting that we arranged to have Belle killed, for the sake of her money? What sort of monster do you take me for, Chief Inspector?”

  It was at this point that Kate started to believe in him again.

  “Let’s have the whole story exactly as it happened, Mr. Latimer. No more evasions, please.”

  He looked crushed, deflated, yet he retained a prideful indignation that he should be suspected of anything as vile as murder.

  “Very well. I ... I’d seen Mrs. Knight around, of course, ever since she started working at the estate office. Then one lunchtime, just over a year ago, I happened to run into her in Marlingford. It seemed only polite to ask her to have a drink with me, and ... well, that’s how it began. I knew at the time I was being a fool. Always before, well, I’d been careful not to get involved with anyone local. But Alison ... she’s a damned attractive woman, and the way she looked at me was irresistible.”

  “You started an affair with her?”

  “Well ... yes.”

  “You went to her home, Old Toll-House Cottage, on a number of occasions?” When he just nodded in reply, Boulter said sharply, “Please answer the question, Mr. Latimer.”

  “Yes, I did. But—”

  “What did you and Mrs. Knight plan for the future?” Kate asked.

  “Plan?” He looked blank.

  “Did you ever talk of leaving your wife?”

  “How could I have left my wife? I mean to say ...”

  You mean to say that your wife had all the money! Latimer was guileless. He was also innocent of murder. Kate felt more and more convinced of that.

  “Did you ever tell Mrs. Knight that you’d marry her if only you were free to do so?”

  “Good heavens, no.” A pause, then under Kate’s challenging scrutiny, he added reluctantly, “Well, I suppose I might have conveyed something or other to that effect. You know how one talks a lot of nonsense at ... at such times. But of course I didn’t mean it. My life with my wife was ... well, how many marriages are perfect? It doesn’t follow that the couple concerned, either of them, want to split up.” His face, just across the narrow table from Kate, looked drawn and haggard. “I don’t expect you to understand this, Chief Inspector, but I miss Belle, I miss her dreadfully. She was a sort of sheet anchor in my life. Alison wasn’t important to me, any more than Monica Sissington was. I tried to explain my feelings to Belle when she discovered I’d been seeing someone else, only she didn’t seem to understand.”

  “Not many women do,” Kate couldn’t resist saying. “Mrs. Knight didn’t understand, either, did she? She believed that she was important to you, isn’t that so? She truly believed that you would marry her if only you were free?”

  “I suppose so,” he said wretchedly.

  “And she would also have believed, just as you yourself did, that in the event of your wife’s death, you would inherit the Stedham fortune?”

  His eyes were uncomprehending. “But Belle was in excellent health. She wouldn’t have died for years if she hadn’t been ...”

  “Exactly, Mr. Latimer.”

  Understanding began to penetrate. “Are you saying you suspect that Alison ... that Alison killed Belle? Oh no, it’s unthinkable. She’s incapable of anything so horrible.” But even as he protested, Kate could read in his face a dawning realisation that this totally unthinkable thing was perhaps not quite so unthinkable after all. Perhaps, in his relationship with Alison, he had occasionally glimpsed aspects of her character that she normally kept well hidden.

  “Mr. Latimer, what did Mrs. Knight tell you about herself? About her origins and background?”

  “Her origins and background? Very little. We didn’t really discuss such things. She was an only child, I know that. And I know that she inherited the cottage she lives in from her mother. That’s about all.”

  “Did she ever mention her father?”

  “I believe he was a farmer of some kind, but she never really talked about her childhood to me. Come to think of it, she was a bit reticent about her childhood.” Latimer leaned forward, looking at Kate intently. “Chief Inspector, you’re not really serious about what you’ve just implied, are you?”

  “What do you think, Mr. Latimer?”

  Kate had done with him for the time being, but she wanted to keep him safely at the station, incommunicado, while she went to interview Alison Knight.

  Standing up, she said, “I’d like you to write down everything you’ve just told me. Put it in your own words, but I want every point covered. Sergeant Boulter will remain with you while you do it.”

  Meeting Tim’s puzzled glance, Kate motioned him to come outside for a minute.

  “Why a writt
en statement, guv, when we’ve got it all on tape?”

  “Because I want to keep him busy, while I go to see Alison Knight.”

  “On your own?”

  “I can take a DC along. You’ll be more useful to me here, Tim, making sure that Latimer stays put. I don’t want him suddenly remembering his rights and demanding to leave. And then phoning Alison.”

  “Oh, I see. But take care, guv. That woman could be dangerous.”

  There was real concern in his voice, and Kate was touched. She also felt a bit mean in leaving Boulter behind. Want every last scrap of glory for yourself, eh, Kate? No, it wasn’t quite like that. But she had to show them, one and all, that she could see this job through to the finish. A bloody woman could do the job, and she didn’t need her hand held.

  All the same, it was only prudent to take a DC along to sit in the car outside Old Toll-House Cottage in case things got heavy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alison Knight was at home, Kate was thankful to see, noting the parked car and open windows. She answered the door almost at once.

  “Kate? What a nice surprise. Come in. I’m just getting myself some supper. It’s only cold ham and salad, but there’d be enough for two at a pinch.”

  “I think you’d better forget about supper for the moment,” Kate said as she walked in. “I need to talk to you.”

  “You sound awfully serious. Is something wrong?”

  “Alison, don’t let’s fence around. I know, you see.”

  “You know what, Kate?”

  “I know that you killed Belle Latimer. And I guess that you also killed George Prescott.”

  Kate had to admire Alison’s poised self-control. But it was past belief that an innocent person could remain so calm in face of an accusation of murder.

  “You’re joking, of course, Kate?”

  “You know I’m not joking.”

  “Might one ask on what you base this preposterous suggestion?”

  “There’s a whole mass of circumstantial evidence.”

  Alison laughed. An unamused, taunting laugh. “Circumstantial evidence won’t get you very far, will it? What are you hoping for from me, a confession? Do you have a radio link with headquarters, or a man lurking at the keyhole? Or is there a miniaturised tape-recorder concealed in your bra?”