Heirs and Assigns

by Marjorie Eccles

  I feel awfully glad for his sake that he will have Anna with him at the helm in the stormy waters I see ahead.

  PART TWO

  FIVE

  Detective Inspector Herbert Reardon, his evening meal finished, with only half his mind on two down, three across, was pondering the kindest way to tell his wife that their weekend away was scuppered. It wasn’t that Ellen would raise objections; she respected what he did, supported him and put up with his unsociable hours. She normally took it in her stride, with good humour, and got on with her own work.

  Only this time he was silently cursing the circumstances, especially since it was the first time ever he’d been the one to suggest such a break. Holidays were for wimps, in his book. But Ellen had suffered a bout of shingles earlier in the year, a painful and debilitating condition which had left her very run-down. Before winter began in earnest, he’d promised her (following a heavy hint by her doctor) they’d have a few days in a great little hotel he’d been told about in the Cotswolds. The doctor suggested that good long walks, sightseeing that Reardon was prepared to endure for her sake and the reputedly excellent food at the hotel, would buck her up and put some colour back in her cheeks. He cursed the timing of this case. It would have been good for her to get away from here, especially just now. It had been a dreary month, and today a slanting grey rain had fallen all day long – not, admittedly, making the atmosphere appreciably worse. Sometimes, living in Dudley, you felt as though you were existing under a permanent pall of smoke. You didn’t like it but you put up with it because you had to if you lived in the Black Country: its clattering, stinking, heavy industry was what kept it and its inhabitants alive. If you’d grown up with it, as he had, you mostly didn’t even notice it. And at night you could always draw the curtains and shut out the night sky that was lurid with the flame and smoke from belching blast furnaces.

  ‘Come on, what is it? What have you to tell me, then?’ Ellen asked, pouring their coffee. He sighed and abandoned the crossword. He wasn’t the only detective in this house.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, but the Cotswold trip’s off. Something’s come up.’

  Her face fell, but only momentarily. ‘Now, why am I not surprised? Oh, well. Best laid plans …’

  What had he expected? Temper tears and tantrums? From Ellen? She wasn’t that sort. Small and composed, with a neat bob of brown hair, her calm, sensible and matter-of-fact outlook on life was what kept him going. You always knew where you were with her – or almost always. Very occasionally, she could be unpredictable, which brought him up short, never a bad thing. She could also make him laugh.

  ‘I know, love, it’s too bad, but we’ve got a suspicious death on our hands …’

  He saw enough of the seamy side of life not to want to bring it often to his own fireside, or not the sort of muck he usually had to deal with. The interesting stuff, the knotty problems, that was different. It somehow took the weight off, discussing a case with someone who was a quick thinker and had – all right, admit it – a woman’s intuition. She’d never let anybody get away with sloppy thinking and that helped to clear his own mind. But this case wasn’t even particularly interesting in that sense; it was a foregone conclusion. In fairness she still needed to know why their short break was off. He explained about the elderly gent who’d been found dead in his bed the week before. ‘He had a weak heart, so it wasn’t altogether surprising, but apparently someone’s decided they couldn’t wait for nature to take its course. You know what it is, when money’s involved – pots of it in this case, apparently. And that always brings out the worst in people.’ It didn’t do to take those sort of accusations too seriously as a rule, of course, they usually came to nothing, but this time a post-mortem had been ordered … ‘The upshot being that it’s landed with us. The local staff can’t cope apparently.’

  And probably glad not to, he thought. Urban policemen like himself joked that the policing of rural outposts was still nothing more than rounding up a few sheep-stealers and rabbit-poachers. Hanging ’em on gibbets at the crossroads, too, no doubt, if the unenlightened country plods could have had their way. Reardon laughed at the joke, but he still thought they weren’t as much on the ball as they should have been. More and more of the larger towns were setting up a dedicated detective department, one they could rely on with no need to call in Scotland Yard to investigate major crimes. And that was where Reardon and his department had come in on this one, even though its detectives were so few in number there was little room for manoeuvre when anyone was off sick, or taking leave. The police in the area concerned had no such force and were short-staffed anyway, their inspector having fallen off a ladder while doing some home decorating. Fate had dictated that Reardon was the only officer available this weekend to answer their request for assistance, even if he wasn’t, strictly speaking, in view of the time off he’d earmarked.

  Having got the bad news off his chest he sat back, fingering the wartime scars on his cheek, something he still found himself doing when he was nervous, upset or just plain bloody annoyed about the inconvenience of police work, as he was now. Ellen’s calm acceptance of a man with a face like a one-sided gargoyle had helped him to come to terms with it. She’d once told him briskly that it was only a scar, that it wasn’t nearly as horrific as he imagined, even that it made his face more interesting, and whether he could allow himself to believe that or not, the idea that she thought he was giving in to self-pity had brought him up short. He’d never considered himself a handsome chap anyway and he was luckier than some poor devils – not gassed, or internally disabled, or trying to make a life after being left with stumps for arms or legs. His mind was still intact, despite the nightmares – and nowadays even they didn’t happen so often.

  ‘So where did you say this happened?’

  He didn’t think he’d said, but maybe he had. ‘Hinton Wyvering, a back of beyond place somewhere in the wilds of Shropshire.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s where my friend Kate Ramsey lives.’

  ‘The schoolteacher?’

  ‘Not any more. That private school where she taught German was progressive, enlightened enough to let her keep her job on when she married, but it was a different matter when the war came. Tolerance didn’t extend to pupils learning the enemy’s language, so she was asked to leave.’

  This was one of Ellen’s hobby horses – the unfairness of a woman teacher’s contract having to end on her marriage. Those responsible didn’t see it like that. After all, a woman’s place was in the home, looking after her husband and children and not taking jobs from men, the breadwinners, wasn’t it? Ellen herself had been forced to resign when she married. She now took what private pupils she could get and did occasional French translation work for a publisher. Occasional being the operative word for either. Both jobs were like that: irregular, sporadic, with no guarantee of a regular income.

  Full marks to the school where Kate Ramsey had taught for not insisting on her retirement after her marriage, but however liberal, Reardon could appreciate that they wouldn’t have dared to go against public opinion and allowed the unpatriotic teaching of the Germans’ language when it came to fighting them.

  ‘Couldn’t she have taught something else, or in another school?’

  ‘As a married woman?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Well, as it happens, she did. With all the men off to war, and such a shortage of teachers, they were glad enough to bend the rules, to the extent that she was allowed to teach at Hinton Wyvering. But after the Armistice she was told they must “let her go” in favour of an ex-soldier. After all, they told her, she did have her war widow’s pension! It was such rotten luck, her husband was listed as missing, presumed dead, only months before the end of the war. But poor Kate, I think she must find life hard on ten shillings a week.’

  ‘But she must have found some other work, I presume? An educated woman like her?’

  Ellen frowned. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know for certain.
I haven’t seen her for years … we’ve only exchanged Christmas cards and the odd letter, and I feel rather guilty about that. We used to be such friends.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘It wouldn’t be like Kate to be idle.’

  It was a shame about her friend, Reardon agreed, but his mind had moved on and he was already sorting practicalities in his mind. ‘We may have to stay, Gilmour and myself, depending on what we find when we get there tomorrow – we’ll need to look for digs, if there’s anything of the sort in such a godforsaken sounding sort of place.’ Theoretically, although it was a long drive, it wouldn’t be too far to drive there and back every day for as long as the enquiry lasted, but it would be tedious and time-wasting, and in any case he preferred, always, to be on the spot. ‘I’d better pack a bag.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’ She was looking thoughtful.

  ‘With a bit of luck, we should be able to wrap it up pretty soon.’ Which was possibly true, but didn’t make him view the prospect with any more enthusiasm … Poor old devil, murdered in his sleep, with only his family as suspects. Straightforward enough, possibly, but whichever way you looked at it, it wasn’t pretty. ‘I’m not too pleased about all this, but you know how it is.’

  ‘And I suppose Joe’s not going to be too pleased, either, at leaving Maisie.’

  Reardon rolled his eyes. His sergeant’s wife was expecting their first child. He was like a dog with two tails, endlessly fussing over her though Maisie, sensible and practical, was perfectly well able to cope without all the flap. She was not far off giving birth now, and by this time Reardon knew a lot more than he wanted to know about swollen ankles, heartburn and a craving for bananas. Ellen’s only pregnancy hadn’t lasted much beyond morning sickness, and they’d never got around to announcing it, so Gilmour had no idea that all this talk brought back their loss, and the sad reminder that there would never be another. And Reardon wasn’t about to embarrass him by telling him now. Since coming to work with him, his red-headed sergeant had shown himself to be a good detective – energetic, capable and even intuitive at times. But he hadn’t yet learnt to be less thin-skinned, God help him, and he’d be mortified to know he was causing distress. Reardon, who hadn’t forgotten what the prospect of becoming a father did to you, held his tongue.

  He said to Ellen now, ‘It’s a damn nuisance for both of us but we’ll fix up another weekend when I’ll make certain I can’t be called in.’

  She said slowly, ‘It might be easier than you think to find somewhere to stay in Hinton Wyvering. I might just be able to persuade Kate to take us in as paying guests, if I put it in the right way so as not to offend her.’

  ‘Ellen,’ he said warningly. ‘No. Not you.’

  ‘A few days in the country was what we were planning anyway, wasn’t it?’ she replied, widening her eyes.

  ‘You’ve work to be getting on with, haven’t you? That novel?’

  ‘I’m well ahead, and anyway it’s exceedingly tedious. The world might be better off if it never sees the light of day. You can take a letter to Kate tomorrow, let her know I haven’t forgotten her. I’d really like to see her again.’

  ‘You know what I always say about not bringing my work home with me. It’ll be on top of us there, and I wouldn’t want—’

  ‘You wouldn’t want me interfering,’ she finished. ‘And when have I ever done that?’

  ‘Never,’ he had to agree, but he felt she was up to something. ‘The answer’s still no. No, Ellen. I can’t allow it. This is not something I want you mixed up in.’

  It would probably have been more exact to say that he didn’t want to have her welfare on his mind when he should be concentrating on the case, but that wouldn’t wash with Ellen. ‘I’ll take your letter with me tomorrow, if you like,’ he conceded, ‘but that’s as far as it goes.’ He didn’t point out that it could have been posted. It had occurred to him that if Kate Ramsey had lived and taught in the area for some time, she had in all probability known the victim. In any case, her knowledge of the place and its inhabitants could be useful.

  SIX

  The day had turned out bright and sharp, and Hinton Wyvering, closed for half-day, lay sleeping in the silence. Gilmour, not happy with the situation, was determined to be non-committal but Reardon liked what he saw. Little more than an overgrown village, strung out along a hill ridge, Hinton was rather picturesque, if a bit run-down. Unspoilt, as far as he could see. Tourists, or those out for a Sunday afternoon spin from the Black Country in their new motor cars, deterred by the state of an upward-twisting road promising little more of interest at the end than a bit of an old, ruined fort, would be more likely to take the route into Wales that skirted round the base of the hill. But presumably hikers – and maybe cyclists of the hardier sort – must make it to the top sometimes … what else would justify the existence of a cottage tea room offering refreshments?

  Otherwise Reardon’s guess had been right – among the scattered buildings, shops and houses, mainly half-timbered but pleasantly mixed with later architectural styles, there were no obvious signs offering bed and breakfast. The one public house, so tiny it possibly qualified for the smallest pub in Britain, could have been overlooked had it not been for ‘The Fox’ sign swinging outside. To seek accommodation there was patently not going to be an option. Otherwise, Hinton Wyvering was only provided with half a dozen or so shops, plus a corn-chandler’s and a smithy to service predominantly country occupations. Not even a police station. The local nick was in Castle Wyvering, an altogether different town some few miles away, recently grown larger, known for its public school, and a real, if ruined, castle.

  Reardon had called in at the police station there, where the sergeant in charge, a beefy man named Bridgstock, had received them with open arms, trying to seem reluctant to hand the case over but not succeeding in concealing his relief, while admitting that he and the few men who manned this station were a little out of their depth with a case like this … not the usual sort of crime in these parts, you understand … if indeed, it does turn out to be a crime. Reardon had given him a sharp glance which the sergeant didn’t meet, but he was all prepared to brief them with the necessary details. Ready and almost too cooperative. Anxious to shunt off a case that Reardon suspected they might, with diligent policing, have actually handled without assistance – had it not been for the fact that the elderly victim, Penrose Llewellyn, hadn’t been just any poor old pensioner. He’d been a local bigwig, a generous contributor to worthy causes, opener of fêtes. Well thought of. He had been instrumental in getting permission for the building of a number of low-cost houses just on the outskirts of Castle Wyvering, and had been honoured by having it named Llewellyn Crescent, after him. And no doubt he’d been on friendly terms with the local hierarchy, possibly the chief constable.

  But then, proving himself no country bumpkin, Bridgstock had handed over a remarkably efficient file, including copies of the post-mortem results and the principal witness statements. What was more, it was beautifully typed.

  Now, in Hinton, Reardon left Gilmour to park the official motor and after that to do some scouting around for any possibility of digs, while he went to make the first call, at Bryn Glas, home of the deceased. ‘Oh come on, Joe, cheer up,’ he said bracingly as he left his sergeant. ‘Look on it as a nice little holiday and it won’t seem half as bad.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it was because of me the police were called,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘Then I’ve come to the right person to put me in the picture,’ Reardon said. ‘But why do you say afraid?’

  ‘It hasn’t exactly made me very popular.’

  Anna Douglas wore working clothes, breeches and a thick jumper: even in the present circumstances she wasn’t neglecting the work on the garden she’d informed Reardon she was contracted to do. But she’d come readily enough into the house with him and suggested tea. ‘Thank you, that would be very welcome,’ he told her. ‘We had an early start this morning.’

  They carried it into a cupboard
-like room, small enough to have once been nothing more than a larder or a pantry, but out of earshot of the girl who was preparing vegetables in the kitchen. They perched on rather uncomfortable stools, with their drinks on a space cleared of the garden paraphernalia that filled the bare wooden shelves. Mrs Douglas was, she explained, using the place as a temporary office while the reconstruction was going on. Photographs, sketches and lists were pinned to the wall; piles of what were presumably invoices, orders and the like, were stacked on a slightly wider shelf that served as a desk. Some of the papers were smudged with earthy fingermarks and all of them were weighted down with large pebbles. There were weatherproof garments on hooks and a row of gumboots on the floor beneath. A very small window overlooked part of the half-completed garden. ‘It was never intended to be very grand,’ Mrs Douglas had told him. ‘That wouldn’t be appropriate. But we’ve come across traces of what might be an Elizabethan sunken garden,’ she’d added, looking doubtful. ‘It’s quite small and contemporary to when the house was originally built, long before it was a farm, so we’d meant to try and keep to the same spirit.’ She sounded disheartened. ‘Clipped box, you know, and a knot garden.’ Whatever that might be. Reardon was no gardener.