A Little Learning

by J M Gregson

  Peach sipped his coffee, nibbled his shortbread, took his time over the opportunity with which she had presented him. ‘Not necessarily. Not unless you are involved in murder. I said we would only release the information if it was strictly necessary to do so, that is, if it proved that either or both of you were in some way involved in the murder of George Andrew Carter.’

  Her breasts rose and fell under the fine wool of the dark blue jumper as she glared at him, realizing the implications of what he said, furious with herself for affording him the opportunity to say it. She did not answer him directly. Instead, she said, ‘Tom Matthews is a fine man, Inspector Peach. A lonely man, perhaps. But he has no wife and no close attachments. If anyone is at fault, it is I.’ She kept the grammar correct, he noticed, selecting her words as carefully as the head girl she had once been, even when she spoke of adultery. ‘I was the bored housewife, if you like. I was the woman whose marriage was at an end, who was waiting until the children should have left home and the husband should have made his final career move before she finished with her husband. My marriage was at an end, Inspector Peach! I was at fault only in not waiting until the formal ties had been severed.’

  She was speaking with real passion, for the first time in either of the interviews he had conducted with her. Peach said quietly, ‘Mrs Carter, I have neither the right to make moral judgements nor any interest in doing so. Your conduct is of interest to me only in so far as it has any bearing on the death of your husband.’

  She looked at him, breathing hard, as if she suspected he was lying. Then she nodded her head curtly. ‘Thank you. I suppose what I’m saying is simply that it’s important to me that people don’t see my relationship with Tom as some sordid tale of a bored, pampered woman seeking a bit of casual sex on the side. I shall marry Tom Matthews, in due course. I should have done that even if nothing had happened to my husband.’

  Peach nodded politely: such questions, as he had indicated, were not his concern. ‘So you were at this guest house in Kettlewell on Friday night and Saturday night.’

  ‘Yes. We spent the daylight hours of Saturday walking in the Grassington area. We returned to the guest house for the evening meal, and we didn’t go out again that night.’

  So they were alibis for each other in the important hours when Carter had been shot through the head. Peach said gently, ‘Is there any independent witness who can confirm this?’

  She looked outraged for a second that her word should be doubted. It was probably a long time since either she or the Reverend Matthews had had their probity questioned. But she saw the logic of his question, even underlined for him the grounds for his persistence. For she said with a wry smile, ‘I suppose I should have expected whatever I said to be questioned, once I had lied to you on Sunday about where I was at the weekend. And no, I don’t think I can provide you with an independent witness. You can ask Mrs Jackson, who keeps the guest house, when you are confirming that we spent the two nights there. But she has her own quarters, at the back of the house, and I doubt whether she would have been aware of whether we went out or not that night, after about eight thirty.’

  ‘Were there any other people staying there?’

  ‘No. She only has two double rooms for visitors, which is one of the advantages for Tom and me. We were the only people there last Friday and Saturday. By the way, you’ll find that she knows Tom and me as Mr and Mrs Clark.’ She smiled bitterly at the admission, and they caught a glimpse of how abhorrent this hole-in-the-corner conduct was to her. And probably also to the Reverend Tom Matthews, thought

  Lucy Blake, recalling her exchanges with him in the morning. He had seemed an attractive, open personality, but with some of the stiffness of army rectitude about him, which recalled his days as a service padre.

  It was Lucy Blake who asked, ‘And what time did the Reverend Matthews leave in the morning? You say he left before you.’

  She nodded. ‘Tom was up at seven and away by half past. He had to be back at St Catherine’s in Brunton for his morning service. I had a leisurely breakfast and set off to drive across country to Kendal at about ten thirty.’

  ‘And Mrs Jackson didn’t see anything unusual in this?’

  Ruth Carter smiled. ‘It had happened before. She must have wondered about us arriving in separate cars, but she never mentioned it. This was the third time we’d stayed there.’

  DS Blake gave her an answering smile, then switched her questioning with all the aplomb of her mentor, Percy Peach. ‘Do you possess a firearm, Mrs Carter?’

  Ruth Carter’s experienced but attractive features froze for a moment. Then she forced the smile back onto them and said determinedly, ‘Not only do I not possess one, but I don’t think I have handled one in my entire life. I have certainly never fired one.’

  Lucy nodded. ‘But Tom Matthews is something of a small arms expert, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is a fine shot with both rifle and revolver, I believe. That has never been demonstrated to me, though. I have never even seen Tom with a gun. We have never discussed the matter, but I fancy he knows that I would not like to have such weapons anywhere in my house.’ Ruth Carter knew perfectly well what she was saying, that this was a firm denial of any involvement in her husband’s death. Yet she smiled a little as she spoke, exulting in the thought that her lover would know such things about her without the need for them to be put into words.

  Peach studied her for a moment, then said quietly, ‘It is now over five days since your husband was murdered in this house. And at least four days since you knew about it.’ His eyes never left her, and he was sure that she realized that the words ‘at least’ meant that she was still in the frame for the murder of her spouse. But she was not visibly ruffled by it. ‘You must have been thinking about who might have pulled the trigger on that revolver.’

  ‘I have thought of little else, Inspector Peach, in the last few days.’

  ‘So you must by now have some opinion on who might have killed your husband. In this case, Mrs Carter, I can assure you that your thoughts will not go further than this room.’

  As if to emphasize the fact, DS Blake shut her notebook and put away her ball-pen, an action registered with a wan smile by Ruth Carter. She raised a forefinger to push away that non-existent stray tress from her forehead again, then said with a sigh, ‘I wasn’t the only one to have relationships outside our marriage, you know. George picked up what he could, where he could. Without damaging his career, of course.’ The contempt which seared these phrases gave them at last a glimpse of her sour disillusionment with a marriage which had run its course.

  This was difficult ground, but an area which might well prove fruitful. Peach said gently, Van you give us the details of any recent liaisons your husband was conducting?’

  She thought for a moment, sipping coffee which was almost cold, wrinkling her lips in disgust at the taste of it. ‘Not going to be much use as a vicar’s wife, am I, if I can’t serve decent coffee?’ It was an assertion of the seriousness of her relationship with Tom Matthews, a notification that whatever the CID thought about her or Tom’s guilt in this, they would have a life together in the future. ‘I haven’t paid much heed to these things recently. Not since Tom and I got together so unexpectedly. George didn’t know about us, incidentally. He was far too preoccupied with his own concerns.’

  Peach brought her gently back to his question. ‘But do you know of any recent relationships, casual or serious, which Dr Carter might have been involved in at the time of his death?’

  ‘There was that black girl, of course. I think George was having a go at her. I couldn’t see what she could possibly see in him, but I suppose she had different eyes from mine. Very attractive eyes, as a matter of fact. Very attractive girl. Intelligent, too, but I can’t remember what her subject was. She’s taught in the States, but I can’t recall her name — she’s from Barbados, I think.’

  ‘Carmen Campbell?’

  ‘That’s the one. You know about her, then.’


  ‘Yes. Can you think of any reason why she should have wanted Dr Carter dead?’

  ‘None whatsoever. I should think our Senior Tutor is a better bet than any woman. He’s never made any bones about his dislike for George. I share a lot of what he feels, of course: George was a charlatan and a hypocrite. But for Walter Culpepper it was verging on paranoia. He’s a genuine scholar, which is why he saw more clearly than most, and earlier than most, what a poser George was. And the fact that George got away with it made Walter really furious: I’d say it turned his contempt into a real hatred. And an unbalanced hatred, I’d guess. Don’t be deceived by his learning and his jokey exterior: our Senior Tutor can be a dangerous enemy.’

  ‘Dangerous enough to kill? To shoot someone through the head in cold blood?’

  ‘That’s for you to decide, Inspector Peach. You asked me to speculate, and I’ve done so. I’ve watched Walter Culpepper’s frustration growing over the years — they were in a college of higher education together before this university was even thought of, don’t forget. When it was, Walter was passed over for the post which will next year become a vice-chancellorship, in favour of a man he detested. I think he’s unbalanced — how seriously, and whether he’s unhinged enough to have killed George, is up to you to decide.’

  Peach nodded. ‘We try to decide on the basis of the facts available, of course. People have to have the opportunity for crime, as well as the motive and inclination. But thank you for those thoughts. Is there anyone else you can think of who had reason to wish your husband dead?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘No. I saw only a very limited part of his professional life, of course.’

  ‘Have you any knowledge of a drugs traffic on the site?’

  She shook her head. ‘I know that it is a danger in all student communities. I suppose in a new and rapidly expanding university like this, there might be rich pickings for drug dealers. But I have no knowledge at all of anything happening on this campus.’

  Peach was disappointed, but not surprised. He believed her: it was what he would have expected. He wondered just what the Drugs Squad officers had been able to get out of Malcolm McLean, whether there was in fact any connection with the death of Claptrap Carter.

  He stood up. ‘Thank you for the coffee, and for being frank with your thoughts about this death. No doubt you will be in touch with the Reverend Thomas Matthews.’ He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. ‘If when you talk you can recall any fact or any person who will confirm where either of you were on Saturday night, please get in touch with us immediately. If we can eliminate anyone from our enquiries, it will speed up the processes of detection.’

  Ruth Carter stood beside them as they got into the car, watched the rear of the Mondeo until it disappeared beneath the cedars. That was a formal way of telling her that they were both still under suspicion, she decided.

  Eighteen

  The police machine is thorough, but sometimes it seems to be using a lot of manpower for very little result. Eventually, however, this thoroughness often throws up unexpected and welcome results. Percy Peach received two such pointers when he returned to the Brunton CID section on the morning of Friday the 22nd of November.

  The first came from a routine trawl of army records. It appeared that the Reverend Thomas Matthews had retained a Smith and Wesson revolver when he finished his service and moved back into civilian life. There was nothing sinister in this: the weapon was private property; Thomas Matthews, like most expert shots, owned his own weapon. During his army service he had only ever used the revolver in shooting contests.

  Examination of the Firearms Licence Register showed that the Reverend T. R. Matthews was a member of a shooting club, but did not hold an individual licence to keep any weapon at home.

  The second windfall for DI Peach concerned Malcolm McLean, the chemistry lecturer who had virtually admitted his involvement in the supply of illegal drugs on the UEL site, but strenuously denied any connection with the murder of its Director. The Drugs Squad, pursuing McLean hard about his control of the drugs traffic on the campus, had turned up a witness who had seen him on the site, within two hundred yards of the Director’s house, at ten o’clock on the Saturday night when Dr Carter had been murdered.

  Percy Peach sat with his hands on his temples for two minutes in his office, deciding how he was going to use these two precious snippets of information. Then he was summoned by his superintendent, and he went upstairs to report the latest information to the man officially in charge of the investigation. Might as well give Tommy Bloody Tucker every chance to make a fool of himself.

  *

  Carmen Campbell was stretching her long legs languorously on her desk and looking out of the window when the phone rang. It was Keith’s voice from Cheshire, sounding as clear as if he was in the next room. Carmen was immediately erect and alert on her chair.

  Keith’s voice had that familiar hint of uncertainty which she found sometimes attractive, sometimes irritating. She did not like men who were too sure of themselves, especially in the matter of her affections. But she sensed that this was one of the occasions on which she might find his lack of confidence annoying rather than consoling.

  ‘The police are coming round to see me. You said they might.’

  ‘I said they would, Keith. But it’s nothing to worry about. They’ll probably want to confirm that I was with you for all of last Saturday night, that’s all.’

  ‘What if they ask about the nature of our relationship?’

  ‘Then you may tell them whatever you think fit, Keith. I might be interested to hear it myself.’ She grinned into the mouthpiece, picturing his anxious, innocent white face at the other end of the line. ‘But I would be surprised if they asked you much about that. It’s only routine. Just tell the truth and shame the devil, as my mother used to tell me.’

  ‘Mine, too. The truth about Saturday night, you mean. That’s easy enough. We went to The Who concert, and then we came back here. You spent the night with me. We made love some time during the night, but I’m not certain when.’

  She laughed. ‘I’m sure you don’t need to tell them the last bit. It might enliven their dull lives, if you gave them action replays.’

  ‘Do I tell them we were stoned out of our minds?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t do that. None of their business, is it? We might have had a few spliffs too many, but lots of people do that, during and after a concert. It’s part of the unwinding, isn’t it? But you’ll only embarrass them if you tell them. The police know it goes on, but they don’t want to do anything about it. Not pot. Not nowadays. Not unless you’re dealing, which you aren’t.’

  ‘No. There isn’t any in the flat at present, if they start looking around.’

  She could hear the doubt in his voice again, and this time it really was irritating. ‘I’m sure they won’t want to search the place. Look, Keith, this is no big deal. Don’t get yourself worked up about it. It’s just routine, when there’s a murder. The police have to eliminate me from their enquiries, along with a lot of other people. Just tell them the truth: that’s all you need to do.’

  ‘You’re sure they won’t want to know about the pot?’

  ‘Don’t mention it. All they want to know is that we were together from four o’clock on that day onwards. So you just tell them the truth and that will be the end of it.’

  ‘All right. When shall I see you again, Carmen?’

  ‘I’ve a hell of a lot on for the next couple of weeks. Student assignments to mark and return. I like to discuss each one with the student concerned.’

  ‘You’re too conscientious, you know. I’ve told you before.’ ‘Maybe. Anyway, I’ll give you a ring on Sunday evening.’ Carmen Campbell put the phone down and stared at it hard for a moment. She couldn’t see the two of them going on beyond Christmas.

  *

  ‘I can only give you ten minutes, Peach.’ Superintendent Tucker stared at Percy over his gold-rimmed half-moon glasses, as if the
report he had called for was an intrusion in a hectic day.

  ‘That’s enough, sir. Brief report on the progress of the case.’ Percy spoke in clipped tones, through a face rigid with discipline, like a soldier at attention on parade.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You were right about the murder victim’s wife, sir. Mrs Claptrap Carter. She appears to have an alibi.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you it would be so? Nice lady, Mrs Carter. Pillar of rectitude.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Except that her alibi is that she was being adulterously shagged out of her mind at the time, sir. By a clergyman.’

  Tucker thought this could not possibly be right. But he looked at Peach’s rigid face, with his eyes trained above his superior’s head, and as usual he was not sure. He had heard of people standing to attention, had even demanded it himself, on the occasional police parade. But Peach was the only man he had known who could sit to attention. He was doing it now, with his short legs thrust out in front of him, his back ramrod straight, his neck seemingly made of iron, his features frozen. Tucker said incredulously, ‘This surely can’t be so.’

  ‘Told me it herself, sir, not an hour ago.’

  ‘With a clergyman, you say?’

  ‘Reverend Thomas Matthews, sir. Doctor of Divinity. Vicar of St Catherine’s. University Chaplain.’ Percy piled on the details in his clipped, neutral voice, each one more shockingly sensational than the last.

  Tucker sought for some kind of relief from this lurid picture. ‘Well, at least it means that neither of them is guilty of the murder of Dr Carter.’

  ‘Unless they were in it together, sir. At it like knives one minute, blowing the husband’s head off the next. It’s not unknown.’

  ‘But a lady like Mrs Carter. And a local clergyman, who seems to be highly regarded by his parishioners. It’s hardly likely, is it?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem so, sir. Except that they’ve no witness to support their story of where they were on Saturday night. And we’ve just had word that our vicar seems to be holding a Smith and Wesson .357, without licence.’