“Not exactly, Sister. He hit it once. He handled the pellet gun quite comfortably.”
“I realize that, but it’s not a real gun. Where would he possibly get his hands on a real gun? None are allowed in the hospital, and his mother watches him like a hawk.”
“Both good points, Sister. You know him better than I do, but in my book, he’s a big question mark. I’d better have a chat with him.” He got to his feet. “Shall we?”
She stood up. “I seem to be doing nothing but apologizing to you, Inspector. I’m sorry. It’s just that we … we, er, seem to see things from quite different points of view.”
He couldn’t help but smile at her. “Probably a good thing too. The world needs more people who still look for the best in others.”
18.
TYLER KNOCKED ON THE DOOR OF THE FULLERS’ cottage and Mrs. Fuller opened it at once.
“I suppose you want to arrest Alfie?” she said belligerently.
“Not at all, Mrs. Fuller. But I do need to talk to him.”
She stepped back and let them in. Alfie was seated at the kitchen table. He was bare chested, and Tyler could see how muscular he was.
“Sister Rebecca’s here. Put your shirt on, Alfie,” said Mrs. Fuller. Grinning at them, he scrambled to do so.
The Fullers’ cottage was identical to the McHatties’ in layout, but whereas the other cottage was neat and Spartan, this one was cluttered with bric-a-brac and too much furniture. Every surface seemed to have a crocheted cover.
“We can talk in here,” said Mrs. Fuller as she led the way to the sitting room. Alfie immediately went to the brocade Victorian loveseat and sat down, swinging his legs like a child.
“Why don’t you have this chair, Sister,” said his mother, leaving Tyler to take one of the straight-backed, velvet-covered chairs. Mrs. Fuller took up her position next to Alfie. The room was small and they were uncomfortably close to one another.
Tyler made his tone reassuring. “Alfie. I’m not going to scold you about your pellet rifle. I just want to ask you some questions about Mr. McHattie.”
Alfie looked straight at him. His blue eyes had an odd, glazed look, like those of a broken doll. “Me ma said he’s gone to heaven. Ben as well. She said a bad man did it and we’ve got to find him.”
“That’s right. Now, I understand you liked Mr. McHattie a lot.”
“Yep. He let me feed the pigeons and write their messages.” He frowned. “Sodding cat. Killing Prince like that.”
Mrs. Fuller gave him a slap on his arm. “Oi. What have I told you about swearing, Alfie?”
Her son looked sullen and rubbed at his arm.
“I don’t think Blackie killed the pigeon,” said Tyler quietly. “We found Prince in the McHattie house. There was no sign that he’d been attacked by a cat.”
Again Alfie looked straight at him. “He ain’t dead then?”
“Yes, I’m afraid he is.” Tyler paused. “Have you been in Mr. McHattie’s house recently?”
Mrs. Fuller cut in. “Course he hasn’t. Martha McHattie wouldn’t let him cross the threshold after what he did.” She halted abruptly and looked at the almoner. “I assume you’ve told the officer what happened?”
Sister Rebecca nodded. “Yes, I have.”
Mrs. Fuller scowled. “Treated Alfie as if he was a criminal, not some poor soul who’s not all there.”
Tyler was about to point out to her that intentionally exposing yourself to young women was in fact a criminal offence when Alfie burst out.
“Mr. Mac was cross with me. He told me I couldn’t go into his house anymore.”
Tears welled up in his eyes and his nose started to run. He wiped off the mucus with the back of his hand.
This elicited another slap from his mother.
“What have I told you about that?” She fished a handkerchief out of her pocket and handed it to him. He blew his nose vigorously and scrubbed at his eyes.
Tyler waited until he’d finished. “I was wondering about the pigeons, Alfie. Do they carry messages back and forth?”
Alfie perked up. “They sure do. Lots of them. We have the males shipped to Scotland on the train. That’s right, to, er, to Scotland. When they get there, the man on that end gives the secretary a ring and tells him what the weather is like. If it’s stormy or too windy, they won’t let them go. It’s not safe. Then when it’s the right time, the man in Scotland lets them all out of their crates. All at once. Off they go into the air. It’s called …” He frowned. “It’s called what, Ma?”
“Liberating them. That’s the proper word they use.”
“Yes, that’s right. Libering them. He rings again to say what time they’ve been let out. So at this end, we just have to wait. Can be a long time. Then we look up and see one or two who are circling around. We send out the lure bird to tell them where to come, and in they dive. They’re tired out mostly. They’ve been flying for hours and hours without stopping. So one by one they land. I get hold of them. I’m the one takes the tube off. We’ve got a special clock that we put the band into. It stamps the time, see. But we only use the clock if it’s a race. Otherwise, I just make a note in the book. Then I make sure the birds get something to drink and eat.”
To Tyler’s ears, Alfie sounded completely lucid.
His mother jumped in. “He’s very good, he is. Just loves to do it. Why don’t you show the inspector your record book, son.”
Alfie got up eagerly and headed for the kitchen. He had to pass Sister Rebecca’s chair and he turned sideways, wobbled a little, and slid by her shyly so there was no inadvertent contact. But he beamed at her.
“ ’Scuse me, madam.”
“It broke his heart when Jock said he couldn’t help him no more,” said Mrs. Fuller. “Cruel, I thought. He had no evidence. It was a mistake. Alfie was having a wee in the open. He does that sometimes. He’s a child in his mind.”
Alfie returned, a red notebook in his hand. Same procedure getting by Sister Rebecca. He handed the book to Tyler, opening it to the last page. It was a book intended for keeping accounts and there were columns of tiny, neatly written numbers.
“See, I put in the date, the flyer’s name, and the time it was let go from Scotland. See, Prince was released on July 14 at eight o’clock in the morning. It was on his band.”
“Did you check him in, Alfie?”
A look of confusion came over the man’s face. “No, I ain’t allowed to be in the coop after hours. I have to be in bed by ten o’clock.” He ducked his head. “Me ma don’t like me to be out when it’s dark.” He cast a sly glance at his mother. “I went walking in me sleep once and she didn’t know where the aitch I was.”
“When was that, Alfie?”
Mrs. Fuller jumped in. “We’d just moved here. He was confused with the new surroundings. And sometimes he sleepwalks.”
“Where had he got to?”
She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Just in the grounds somewhere. But I didn’t want him near the river in the dark.” Her eyes met Tyler’s. “Now, I make sure he’s in his room by ten o’clock … I lock the door.”
“And that was the case last night? Alfie was in his room with the door locked from ten o’clock on?”
“That’s right.”
Tyler looked down at the accounting book. “According to this, Alfie has recorded Prince coming in at midnight.”
“That must be a mistake,” said his mother. “He makes mistakes sometimes. Doesn’t know morning from night. Tell him, Alfie. Tell the inspector you got the time wrong for that bird.”
Tyler handed over the book so Alfie could have a look. He stared at the page in bewilderment for several moments, then he smiled. “No, that’s right. Spitfire was back by nine, but Prince didn’t get in until twelve.”
“Could you see them from your window, Alfie?” Tyler asked.
“That’s it. They lands on the ledge and I can see them.”
“Even in the dark?”
Alfie nodded.
&
nbsp; At that moment, the clock on the mantle began to chime out eleven o’clock.
“Alfie, what comes next?” Tyler asked. “Would you say it’s noon after this or midnight?”
Alfie told off each chime on his fingers. When the chimes had finished, he hesitated. “There were eleven. And it’s daytime. So next is noon. Midnight means the middle of the night and it ain’t that. The sun is shining.”
“Quite right. And that’s a good way to tell the difference. So did Prince come in at twelve midnight or twelve noon? Was it dark or light?”
Alfie shot a glance at his mother. “I forget.”
Mrs. Fuller glared at Tyler. “He weren’t out last night, I tell you. He checked in that bird at noon.”
“That’s right,” said Alfie. “Spitfire was tired too. He come a long way. He was let go in Wales. That’s far.”
“Do you mind if I hang on to the book for a bit, Alfie?” Tyler asked.
“All right. But I’ll need it back by tonight. There are two birds that haven’t come in yet. I’ve got to keep records properly. Mr. Mac has trusted me.” He looked over at his mother. “Would it be all right if I went into the coop, Ma? Mr. Mac is away in heaven and he won’t get back in time to check on them himself.”
“I don’t see why not,” his mother answered.
Tyler stashed the notebook in his jacket pocket.
“Alfie, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to swear on your honour that you will answer truthfully.”
“We’re not in a court of law,” interjected Mrs. Fuller. “He don’t know what that means.”
“I do, Ma,” said Alfie, and he raised his hand in a half scout, half military salute. “On my honour, sir.”
“Did you put the pigeon in Shirley McHattie’s room?”
Alfie stared at him. “Not me, sir. I’d never do that. Girls don’t like dead things.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Tyler stood up. “I just have one more question. Like your mum told you, a bad person has hurt Mr. McHattie and his son. Do you have any idea who might want to do that?”
“Oh yes. I know who it was,” said Alfie loudly.
“Who?”
“Bleeding Hitler, of course. I bet he dropped in on his parachute. I bet he come in and wrung their necks.”
19.
“WOULD YOU MIND IF I TOOK A LOOK AT ALFIE’S room?” Tyler asked Mrs. Fuller.
“Suit yourself,” said Mrs. Fuller. “Do what you have to. Me, I’ve got to get over to the house. Those poor folks will be famished. Alfie helps me.”
Her son beamed. “I peel the potatoes. There’s always mounds and mounds.”
“He sleeps in the back,” said Mrs. Fuller. “He gets wobbly on the stairs, so it’s better if he’s on the ground floor.”
She showed them the room and left them to it, her son docilely trotting after her.
Alfie’s room, also off the kitchen, was a duplicate of Shirley McHattie’s except that it looked more like a child’s room than an adult’s. A narrow bed over which hung a model of a Spitfire, a wall covered with pictures of fighter planes and bombers torn from magazines. The sash window was open, the blackout curtains were pulled well back, and the net curtain billowed in the breeze.
Tyler walked over to take a look. The rear of the house was taken up by a vegetable garden. Behind that, about twenty feet away, was the encircling wall.
“You can’t see the pigeon coop from here,” said Tyler to the almoner. “On the other hand, it would be very easy for Alfie to climb out of the window and walk around to it. And the McHattie cottage. What on earth made Mrs. Fuller think he was safely locked in his room?”
“Maybe she went to check on him periodically.”
“At three in the morning? I doubt that,” said Tyler. “I’m betting she closed and locked the door behind him, gave him a warning, and left it at that. She believes what she wanted to believe.”
“Do you think he did go to the coop later?”
“Of course he did. It was his job to keep the records of the birds’ flights. He’s not confused about that. For sure, he was there at midnight. Question is, did he come back to his room, via this window, or hang about somewhere until three when he entered the McHattie cottage? He could have done both. Gone out and come back, then gone out again. Seems most unlikely, but I can’t totally rule him out yet.” Tyler turned to face the almoner. “All right. I’d better get on with the interviews. Perhaps we can do that right after they’ve had their meal.”
They went outside and met Sister Rachel on the path, hurrying towards them.
“Inspector Tyler. There’s a telephone call for you from Dr. Murnaghan. He’s holding the line.”
“That was fast,” said Tyler as they headed towards the house.
Two residents in wheelchairs were on the gravel path. They both were wearing dark glasses and Tyler couldn’t tell if they were asleep or not. Dai Hughes was seated on an apple box near them.
“I’ll just have a word with Hughes,” said the almoner, and Tyler continued on with the young nun.
Sister Rachel held the door open for him. She lowered her eyes as he brushed by, but not before he’d glimpsed an expression that he could only describe as worldly, as if the hint of sexuality was familiar. Not that a vocation in the church wasn’t most commendable, but she was so attractive, it made him wonder what had brought her to it.
The telephone was waiting for him on the desk.
“Tyler here.”
Dr. Murnaghan’s voice came barrelling over the wire. “Goddamn it to hell, bloody car was in an accident. Nothing serious, just a stupid sheep wandering across the road. But I gave my noggin a hard knock. Saw stars, which is not a good sign. I probably have a concussion. I’m in the hospital wing right now. They’ve got to run a test. Bottom line is I won’t be able to get your post-mortems done as quickly as I’d hoped.”
“That’s too bad, Doctor. When do you think you will be able to?”
“Can’t say till I’ve been checked over. I’ve got a goddamn awful headache. You could try to get somebody else in, but the closest coroner is in Hereford. I wouldn’t recommend him, to be frank.”
“We’ll wait then. Look after yourself.”
“Sorry. I’ll have to hang up before I pass out. Ring tomorrow.”
The telephone clicked off abruptly.
Tyler sighed. An early post-mortem report would have been great, but he’d have to just continue with his own investigation until Murnaghan could get to it. And that meant first and foremost trying to unearth a motive for the killing.
20.
BY THE AFTERNOON, TYLER COULD DECLARE HIS interviews had been almost entirely unproductive. He’d started with the massage students and put the same set of questions to each person: “Did you hear anything during the night? Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill Jock McHattie?”
Neither Prescott nor Bancroft was able to act alone, that was certain. Of the remaining three students, Melrose, now dressed in an elegant navy blazer with a cravat, had admitted to being, as he put it, “cool” towards Jock McHattie. His teacher had it in for him, he said, but he didn’t come up with any convincing examples of Jock’s malevolence. Not a powerful motive for a brutal killing. Daisy Stevens was the most upset. She had really admired Jock, she said. She didn’t know who would have wanted him dead, and she had heard nothing last night. The mute chappie, Clark, wrote his replies on a piece of paper Tyler provided for him. NO and NO IDEA.
Daisy had asked on their behalf if they could go into town for a short while as previously planned, and Tyler agreed. At this moment, he had no good reason to suspect any of them.
The remaining interviews were also quite unproductive.
Unanimous answers. When any were provided, that is. Miss Bowman and Mrs. Broadbent didn’t answer at all and seemed not to have even heard his questions. Graham Coates, obviously once blond and handsome, now no longer so, couldn’t seem to understand the questions at all and lapsed into silence. Isaac Fa
rber shook so badly, Tyler felt like a torturer and cut the interview short. Everybody else said no. Heard nothing and, no, couldn’t imagine who would want to kill Jock.
The three nuns, Sisters Clarissa, Virginia, and Rachel, although obviously distressed, showed admirable self-control, each seeming to give a lot of thought to his questions. However, they had nothing new to offer. Their quarters were set apart from both the main house and the cottages. They had heard nothing. As for Jock McHattie, all agreed he was liked and respected and they couldn’t imagine anybody wanting to kill him.
Of the resident staff, only the Hughes brothers tweaked Tyler’s curiosity. The older brother, Evan, seemed cautious and wary, but the police often had that effect on people so Tyler didn’t take it too seriously. However, the younger brother, Dai, was fidgety and uncomfortable.
“I was asleep the whole night, sir, truth be told. We’re allowed to do that if we’re not needed on the ward. I can wake at the drop of a hat, look you, so it isn’t a problem.”
“According to the sister on night duty, you and she had a bit of a chat when you came on.”
Hughes’s eyes widened. “Did we?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Oh. Oh, yes, I remember. Nothing much. Just about the weather. That sort of thing.”
That wasn’t what Sister Ivy had said, but Tyler let it ride for now.
“Then you went to spend the rest of the night on your cot, correct?”
“That’s right. Didn’t stir once. No need to, thank goodness.”
Recollecting the magazine that Hughes had taken to bed with him, Tyler was surprised Dai had had any sleep at all. Perhaps it was merely his bedtime reading material that was giving Hughes such a guilty demeanour.
Tyler dismissed him, repeating what he’d said to the others. “If anything comes back to you, let me know at once.”
Hughes gave a salute. “Yes, sir. I will, indeedy. Thank you, sir.”
21.
No Known Grave Page 10
