“Couldn’t you have asked her to come earlier, or later?”
“I did hint, but to no avail. It was her mother, I believe. Like an alarm clock, that woman was. Though heaven knows, I shouldn’t complain about that. When one’s in this sort of situation it’s all too easy to be thrown when one’s little routine is disturbed. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to sin lying here in bed! The temptations are endless—to bad temper, self-pity, lack of consideration … It’s so easy to justify one’s lapses, you see, to think you have every right to indulge in them …’ He grinned wickedly at Thanet. “Confidentially, I do allow myself the occasional self-indulgence, just for the pleasure of feeling guilty afterwards. It convinces me I’m still alive!”
Thanet laughed out loud. “I must remember that, the next time I’m tempted.”
“But I mustn’t waste your time, Inspector, must I? It’s just that it’s such a pleasure to see a new face, have a new audience.… You see how easy it is to slip? I’m doing it now! Please, do go on with your questions.”
“I’d be very interested to know what you thought of Miss Birch.”
“What did I think of her,” said the old man ruminatively. Like his daughter, he looked away, out of the window, as if to recapture an image already blurred by the passage of time. Or was he simply trying to gain time while he thought up a suitable answer? Thanet waited with interest.
The reply, when it came, was a disappointment, echoing Marion Pitman’s.
“Quiet. Unobtrusive. A good worker, and reliable. I don’t know what we’ll do without her.”
And Mr Pitman had the same reservations as his daughter, Thanet noted. He tried again. “But …?”
The old man did not evade the question nor did he answer it satisfactorily. “But I never really warmed to her. Mind, she had a very bad time with that mother of hers, so it’s not surprising that she was so … reserved.”
“What did you talk about, when she was here?”
“We didn’t talk, not really. She had work to do, but apart from that our conversation was strictly about practicalities—what I wanted, needed and so on.”
“Did she have any close friends, do you know?”
“Not to my knowledge. She led a very circumscribed life, you know. Whenever she wasn’t working she was dancing attendance on her mother. I shouldn’t think she’d ever been further away from Nettleton than Sturrenden in her whole life.”
Thanet was being distracted and he knew it. But he didn’t want to alienate Mr Pitman. An old man like this, with a lively, enquiring mind and considerable local knowledge might be a valuable ally. There were already questions crowding into Thanet’s mind, but he wasn’t ready to ask them yet. He wasn’t certain that they were the right ones. Those, he knew, would emerge as the case progressed and then he would enlist Mr Pitman’s help openly. He was sure that the old man would be delighted to cooperate. There was just one point, though …
“Was she honest?” he said, suddenly.
Mr Pitman looked startled. “Did she steal, you mean? Not to my knowledge. If she did, I’ve never heard a whisper of it.”
There was something about that reply that was interestingly off-key, but Thanet decided not to query it. He rose. “Well I think that’s all for the moment, Mr Pitman. May I come and see you again, if I think of anything else I want to ask you?”
The old man grinned. “I didn’t think you’d need my permission. But in any case, I’d be delighted. I’ll be keeping my eye on you all, of course.”
Now it was Thanet’s turn to look startled.
Mr Pitman nodded at the wall behind Thanet. On it there was a large convex mirror which reflected the road outside. Thanet half squatted until his head was on a level with Mr Pitman’s and alongside it, then looked at the mirror. The area which it reflected was surprisingly extensive, stretching from the new vicarage gate on the left to well past the entrance to Church Lane on the right. As Thanet looked, a familiar figure, slightly distorted by the curvature of the mirror but readily recognisable, emerged from the front gate of number five and started to walk down the lane towards the road: Lineham, his interview with Miss Cox over.
“So I see,” Thanet said, straightening up.
A pity, he thought as he took his leave, that it had been dark last night when Carrie left the Pitmans’ house. Mr Pitman would not only have seen where she had gone, he might even have seen the murderer.
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About the Author
Dorothy Simpson (b. 1933) was born and raised in South Wales, and went to Bristol University, where she studied modern languages before moving to Kent, the setting for her Inspector Thanet Mysteries. After spending several years at home with her three children, she trained as a marriage guidance counselor and subsequently worked as one for thirteen years, before writing her first novel. Says Simpson, “You may think that marriage guidance counselor to crime writer is rather a peculiar career move, but although I didn’t realise it at the time, of course, the training I received was the best possible preparation for writing detective novels. Murder mysteries are all about relationships which go disastrously wrong and the insights I gained into what makes people tick, into their interaction and motivations, have been absolutely invaluable to DI Thanet, my series character, as have the interviewing skills I acquired during my years of counseling.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1984 by Dorothy Simpson
Cover design by Michel Vrana
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4432-5
This edition published in 2017 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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The Night She Died Page 23
