David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door

by Anthea Fraser

  “So he wasn’t in Beckworth that day?”

  “No, he was in Woodstock, and it took him four hours to come home.”

  “Four hours!”

  “Says he stopped for a meal, but even so it hardly seems plausible.”

  “Oh, I don’t know; it depends on the restaurant. Sometimes it seems like four hours before they even take your order.” She sat opposite him, cradling her glass.

  “On a happier note, how was the wedding? I haven’t seen you since, though I rang your bell a couple of times.”

  “I’ve been at Charlotte’s. As you know, I usually go for a few days as soon as we break up, but this time it was postponed because of the wedding.” Charlotte Yates, Hannah’s aunt, was a lecturer at Oxford. “I only got back this morning. She sends her regards, by the way.

  “As to the wedding, it was lovely. Camilla, as you would expect, looked radiant, and Mark was like a dog with two tails. Thank goodness some good came of that sorry business. I hope news of this latest case doesn’t reach them on their honeymoon; it would bring it all back.” She paused. “Any suspects other than the husband?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ah well, it’s early days. Now, I presume you are going to stay for the goulash?”

  Webb grinned, and some of his tiredness fell away. “You talked me into it,” he said.

  ***

  Webb was back at the bar of the Green Man, this time in an official capacity. Not having opted for the new licensing hours, the pub was still closed and mine host engaged in wiping down the bar.

  “So you weren’t only sketching, last time you were here,” he commented as Webb produced his warrant card. “Actually, I was.”

  “Not looking into the burglary at the same time?”

  “No, that wasn’t my pigeon. But the murder is.”

  The landlord shook his head. “Aye, it’s a bad business. I was saying how the village had changed, but I never dreamt it had gone that far. Mind, the general feeling is she was killed by a visitor. Rough lot you get sometimes, coming in on those coaches. No reason to suppose it was anyone from the village.”

  Webb said diplomatically, “I’m sure you’ve discussed it from every angle. Anyone know anything, would you say?”

  The landlord gave a short laugh. “No, but that doesn’t stop ‘em pontificating. More theories than you could shake a stick at.”

  “Any that sound feasible?”

  “The most popular is that she was having it off with someone and picked the wrong feller. Nothing whatever to back it up, mind, and I wouldn’t want to blacken the poor lady’s name when she can’t stick up for herself.”

  “Any suggestions for the role?”

  “We wouldn’t know, would we, if he was a visitor.” So village loyalty still existed. Though it might hinder his inquiries, Webb couldn’t regret it.

  “You’ve got a point there.” He changed tack. “You were saying before that a lot of the young people have moved away.” The man nodded. “But there are quite a few still about, I gather?” The Beckworth Bruisers, as Dexter had called them.

  “Oh yes, one or two.”

  “Clients?”

  The landlord grimaced. “Yes, and there are times we could do without them. They get a bit wild now and then, which annoys the old brigade, but they’re not a bad bunch really.”

  “They have jobs locally, then?”

  “Yes, some work on the estate—gardeners, grooms, odd-job men. Some are farm labourers, some on the dole—and one’s following my own trade, down in Shillingham.”

  “Really? Which pub?”

  “The Whistle Stop.”

  Webb grunted noncommittally. Didn’t say much for the lad; the Whistle Stop, which was alongside the station, was in the poorest part of town and there were persistent rumours of drugs changing hands there.

  “And all these boys were born and bred here?”

  “As far as I know. I remember most of them as youngsters.” He paused. “Not figuring them for the job, are you?”

  “Not necessarily, but in a murder inquiry we have to check on everyone.”

  “Well, Mr. Scott could tell you more than I can. He was headmaster of the school till it closed down.”

  “Ah! Is he still around?”

  “Yes—lives at the schoolhouse. The smaller, left-hand half.”

  “Right, thanks very much for your help, Mr.—?”

  “Haydock. Stan Haydock.”

  “I’ll no doubt see you again at lunch-time, on a less formal basis.”

  “You’ll be very welcome, sir.”

  As Webb reached the corner of the lane, Jackson, who had been to check with the men still working in the grounds, was emerging from a small gate set in the large wrought-iron ones.

  “Is that unlocked all the time?” Webb asked, nodding towards it.

  “It’s not unlocked, Guy. You can let yourself out from the inside, but unless you’ve a key you have to ring the bell to get in. The lady at the Lodge isn’t too happy about running backwards and forwards with our lads going in and out.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “Only in passing. Said we’d look in later when her husband’s home. About six-thirty, she said.” Which meant another fairly late do, he thought, still worrying about Paul.

  “It was he who gave a lift to the dead woman,” Webb said thoughtfully. “I wonder if his wife knows.”

  “She soon will. Where now then, Guv?”

  Webb nodded across to the schoolhouse on the opposite corner. “A word with the ex-headmaster about his former pupils. Might be quite instructive.”

  Leslie Scott, who opened the door to them, was a bent, elderly man with bushy eyebrows above rheumy eyes. His hair, still quite plentiful, was snowy white and he wore a neat striped shirt and tie under a beige cardigan. Still very much with it, Webb decided.

  “Good morning, sir. I’m sorry to trouble you, but—”

  “Been expecting you,” Scott said, moving to one side. “Come in, come in. Terrible business.”

  They followed him into the narrow hallway. The house, which Haydock had referred to as “the smaller half”, was in fact only one third of the building, but it was cosy and cheerful and had quite a decent-sized garden, long and narrow, behind it. An elderly woman, hearing their voices, appeared from the direction of the kitchen.

  “My wife, Joyce.”

  Webb shook her hand.

  “There’s some coffee on the stove,” she said. “Could I offer you a cup?”

  “That would be welcome. Thank you.”

  He and Jackson settled themselves as directed on the chintz sofa.

  “Now, Mr. Webb,” Scott began, “tell us how we can help you. I’m afraid our fingers aren’t as much on the pulse as they used to be.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Dexter, sir?”

  “Alas, no. These days, people rush about in their cars instead of walking in the village. Can’t blame them; there’s nowhere to walk to, now the shop’s closed.”

  “You didn’t even know her by sight?”

  “I couldn’t be sure. Believe it or not, I only know our next-door neighbours to nod to—they’re out at work all day. As to people farther along the road, they moved into those houses at much the same time, and to be honest I never really sorted out t’other from which. In any case, they have young families and don’t want to be bothered with old fogeys like us.” His gentle smile took any bitterness from his words.

  “Speaking of your next-door neighbours, I hear they were burgled on Tuesday.”

  The old man pulled down his mouth. “We feel very badly about that. Didn’t hear a thing, though you’d think we should have done, through the wall. But this old house is solidly built, none of your flimsy modern stuff, and that dividing wall is part of the original building.” He smiled reminiscently. “This room used to be my study, in the old days.”

  “How long were you headmaster, Mr. Scott?”

  “Fifteen years in all, and I worked here for ten before th
at.”

  “It must have been a wrench, when the school closed down.”

  “Nearly broke my heart. Not for myself; I’d reached retiring age and was ready to go. But for the children; all sense of community is lost when they have to travel miles to school. We waged a strong campaign to keep it open, but in the end we were beaten.”

  “I suppose there are quite a few of your former pupils about the place?”

  “Yes, and that’s heart-breaking too. The brighter ones have done well for themselves, as you’d expect, but the below-average have been badly served. Few jobs are going hereabouts, and a lot of them are wasting their lives drifting from one poorly paid post to another. If, indeed, they can find work at all.”

  “I know this is a difficult question, but I’d be grateful for your frankness.” Webb paused, wondering how best to phrase it. “Were there any among them who might have developed—criminal tendencies?”

  “Oh dear. I do hope we’re not talking about the murder?”

  “There are also the burglaries to consider,” Webb said obliquely. “I hear some of them are given to hanging round on street corners. They’d have a good idea when a house was empty.”

  “As to that, I couldn’t say. We do have the occasional spot of trouble; a fight broke out one night last week, I believe, between some of our boys and a crowd from the camping site. Joe Barlow was telling me he had to break it up.”

  “Joe Barlow?” The surname rang a bell: a Mrs. Barlow had been one of those who found the body.

  “Our milkman. He lives down Tinker’s Lane. In fact, his son is one of those I’m concerned about, though he has a job of sorts, in a public house in Shillingham.”

  “Then why are you concerned?”

  The old man met Webb’s eye. “We are talking confidentially, I take it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, he was never a boy I felt I could trust. Caught cheating and so on. He had a chip on his shoulder, I don’t know why, and since he’s a strong character the other boys followed his lead.”

  “A gang leader, in fact?”

  “I shouldn’t put it as strongly as that, Chief Inspector. But I have to say that if there was trouble, Darren Barlow would be the first I’d ask about it.”

  “Does he still live at home?”

  “No; for one thing, the house isn’t big enough. It already has to accommodate Joe’s crippled father and the married daughter and her husband. But he was home over Easter; I saw him nearly run down Mr. Parrish on his motorbike.”

  From the corner of his eye, Webb watched Jackson write down Darren’s name. “Who are the other boys he’s friendly with?”

  The old man mentioned four or five, who were also noted. He remembered most of their addresses, too, which Webb thought pretty good going. Harry Sage could follow them up.

  “Right; we’re most grateful for your help, Mr. Scott. If you remember anything else, perhaps you would contact us.”

  ***

  Webb stood for a moment on the pavement outside the schoolhouse to get his bearings. The building was at the crossroads of the village; leading up to the right was the road to the church which he’d followed on his sketching trip, and just across it, most conveniently placed, the village hall-cum-incident room, with the mobile police canteen parked outside. Opposite them lay Tinker’s Lane with the estate gates on the right-hand corner and the Green Man some fifty yards down on the left. Between himself and the lane the main road ran through the village. A pity the old man wasn’t given to standing at his windows; if he had been, there’d be little he’d miss.

  Webb glanced at his watch. Just after eleven. “What time do milkmen get home, Ken?”

  “Depends on the round, I should think, Guy.”

  “Well, we need to speak to his wife anyway; Sage only took a preliminary statement. Number 17, I think it was. Might even get a few snippets on young Darren while we’re there.”

  Together they walked down the lane, glancing appreciatively at the pretty little houses that lined it, with their steep roofs and gabled windows and the white picket fences that edged the minute front gardens. On the other side of the road the high wall of the estate kept pace with them, with the wide empty space of the visitors’ car-park at its foot.

  A clip-clopping of hooves preceded a procession of six horses, each mounted by a small girl in jodhpurs and hard hat. As they trotted sedately past, the one in front solemnly raised her crop in greeting. There was a livery stable on the lower road, Webb remembered, watching the beautifully groomed animals disappearing down the hill.

  Jackson was slowing, as Webb had known he would, to read the menu displayed outside the Green Man. Webb, maintaining his pace, said over his shoulder, “They do a formidable sausage, Ken. You’ll have earned it by the time we get back here.” His sergeant’s capacity for food was a never-ending source of wonder, but he conceded that without Ken’s need for regular sustenance he himself might well have succumbed to ulcers before now.

  Number 17 was no different from its neighbours except that a bus stop was positioned in front of it. Jackson pushed open the gate and they went up the short path to the door.

  Mrs. Barlow could best be described as bonny, Webb decided; rounded without being unduly plump, with a pleasant, fresh-complexioned face and greying brown hair.

  “I’ve already spoken to the police,” she said in her soft Broadshire burr, her eyes showing alarm at this second visit.

  “I appreciate that, ma’am, but we’ve a few more questions, if you could spare us a couple of minutes.”

  From the hall behind her came a querulous old voice. “Who’s that, Hazel? Not the ruddy cops again?”

  “Hush, Dad.” Mrs. Barlow, flushing, shot them an apologetic glance. “Come in if you’d like to. I’m afraid we’re rather cluttered.”

  She spoke no more than the truth. Pretty the cottage might be, but it was not designed for family living. As they walked past the open door on their left, Webb, with a sideways glance, caught sight of an old man in a wheelchair glowering out at him. His occupancy of that room explained the congested kitchen into which they were now shown. Though of reasonable size, it seemingly doubled as living-room, since there was a sofa, two armchairs and a television taking up space that could ill be spared. Mrs. Barlow swept up some newspapers to clear a space for them to sit down.

  “Is your father-in-law able to get about much?” Webb asked, watching her.

  “Oh, certainly. He zooms round all over the village.”

  “So he’s fairly independent, then?”

  “Yes, and his job on the gate helps.” As Webb looked back at her uncomprehendingly, she added, “He issues tickets up at the House on Open Days.”

  “Does he indeed?” Webb’s casual air disappeared. “Was he there on Monday?”

  She nodded. “All afternoon. Now, sir, how can I help you?”

  He’d see the old man on the way out. “Could you begin by explaining how you came to find Mrs. Dexter?”

  “Oh.” She perched on the edge of the table, clasping her hands tightly. “Well, I work in the greenhouses up at the House, growing flowers for the private apartments and various functions that are held there. But when we have a really big occasion, like the wedding last Saturday, professional arrangers come in, bringing the fancy flowers with them. We settle their bill and include their charges in our account to the clients. Saves them having a lot of separate bills, you see.”

  “Yes?” said Webb encouragingly, mystified as to the relevancy of all this.

  “Well, sir, I remembered I hadn’t passed the arrangers’ bill on to Mrs. Carey, so I took it up on Wednesday morning. And I was just leaving when Mrs. Cummings came round.”

  “And why exactly did Mrs. Cummings call?” No harm in getting a corroborative statement.

  “Because she’d just heard Mrs. Dexter was missing, and remembered seeing her in the grounds on Monday afternoon.”

  “Had you met Mrs. Cummings before?”

  “No, sir. Ne
ither of us had.”

  “What about Mrs. Dexter?”

  “I’d seen her once or twice in her car, but I didn’t know her name.”

  “So how did you set about looking for her?”

  Hazel explained how they’d separated, and her own fruitless search of the walled garden. “I met Mrs. Cummings coming back from the rose-garden, and she’d not had any luck either. We’d arranged to meet again in front of the House, but when Mrs. Carey didn’t come, we went to the pond to look for her.”

  “And when you saw Mrs. Dexter in the water, you recognized her?”

  Hazel nodded and bent her head.

  “Had you been in the grounds yourself on Monday, Mrs. Barlow?”

  “Only on the way to the Orangery. My daughter and I were helping with the teas.”

  “What time would that have been?”

  “From three till five-thirty. Mavis didn’t stay all the time, because she’s expecting and can’t stand for long periods.”

  “Now you know who Mrs. Dexter was, did she come in for a cup of tea?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you didn’t see her at any time during the afternoon?”

  “No.”

  “When you’d seen her about the village, had she ever been with anyone other than her children?”

  “Only the once, sir, with Mr. Carey.”

  “When was that?” If the time differed from what Dexter had said, it might point to more than one assignation.

  But his hopes were dashed.

  “The afternoon of the wedding. Last Saturday, that is. They drove past when I was weeding at the front.”

  There was a pause, and Hazel said nervously, “Could I get you some tea or something?”

  “No, thank you; we’ve just had coffee with Mr. Scott.” As though glad to change the subject, she said eagerly, “He’s a lovely old gentleman, isn’t he?”

  “Very pleasant. He was saying your husband had to break up a fight between some youths last week.”

  “That’s right. It was that lot from down the road that started it. There’s often trouble during the holiday season when the campers come.”

  “Lucky your husband happened to be around. What time does he get home, by the way? I’d like to ask him about it.”