DEADLY DECEPTIONS

by Bill WENHAM

  She walked away and waved cheerfully at them as she got in her car and then drove off.

  “Come on then,” Bristow said. “I suppose I’d better drive you. You’ll only get lost if I don’t.”

  “Bristow, I…” he began.

  “Get in, sir, before I change my mind,” she said as she opened the car door for him. “We irresponsible females are allowed to do that, you know.”

  “Oh, Lord help us,” Middleton muttered as he got in the car but Bristow was determined to have the last word as usual.

  “No good you calling in outside help or divine intervention, sir - we have to solve this case all by ourselves.”

  Later, as a matter of course, Middleton and Bristow made inquiries at the barber shop and at Ella Thomas’s salon. They asked to see any straight razors they had amongst their equipment.

  “Are you planning to confiscate them,” Ella asked Middleton in a tight voice.

  “No, ma’am. At this point in time, we are merely checking to see who in the community has such a thing. We may need to take further action later,” he replied.

  Ella just laughed.

  “If you were to check in everybody in the parish’s bathroom or keepsake boxes, Inspector, I could almost guarantee that you’d probably find another fifty of them,” she said scornfully.

  “Quite so, ma’am, and that’s as may be, but we have to find the right one, don’t we? That’s why we are here,” he replied coolly.

  Ella’s face went red under her makeup.

  “And you think mine is the right one? Are you out of your mind, Inspector?” she burst out angrily.

  “I’m not, Ms. Thomas, but someone in this community is and it’s our responsibility to catch them if we can,” Middleton said.

  “And it’s your responsibility to assist us, Ms. Thomas, not to make it even harder for us,” Bristow added. She was about to add that Ms. Thomas could be next, but thankfully she thought better of it.

  “Yes, I suppose so. I’m sorry,” Ella Thomas said as Middleton just nodded and they left.

  The Silvestri’s had been far more cooperative, even suggesting that their razors be confiscated if it would help the police investigations.

  In no time at all, even with old Joe Turner gone now and no longer spreading the gossip, the fact that the police were looking for a straight razor circulated around the community like wildfire.

  Eventually it reached the eard of David Bowen, who was, once again in the bar of the Black Bull – and once again ordered and quickly downed a double Scotch when he heard it.

  This time the barman made no comment but he still wondered why David Bowen had suddenly switched from beer to the hard stuff.

  Bowen sat at the bar, wondering and worrying if his hastily selected hiding place was safe enough. If suspicion ever did fall on him, he knew that the police would turn his place upside down and bring in dogs from Cambridge to help them out.

  He’d better move it, he decided, to somewhere more public than his own bloody garden. The police wouldn’t be out searching at this time of night and they had no reason at all to select him first to search anyway.

  He decided to move it first thing in the morning.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Bowen’s vegetable garden was located at the end of his garden between his two Bartlett pear trees. It was bounded by a white wooden picket fence that backed on to the lane at the rear of the cottage. The lane was more of a path in reality since it was too narrow for vehicular traffic. Cars and other vehicles used the paved road at the front.

  Also, using some of his extra land, Bowen had built a fairly large a rustic styled shed type of building. The front of it, facing the road, was constructed almost entirely of small, square panes of glass, some of them bottled, and the roof was thatched to match his cottage,

  This was David Bowen’s showroom for the sale of his artwork, maps and brass rubbings. A rustic looking sign lettered in Olde English identified it as ‘Bowen’s Gallery’

  After his evening in the Black Bull he had arisen early. The sun was already up as he unearthed the plastic package containing his razor with a trowel. As he pulled the package out a shadow fell across the ground in front of him.

  He looked up in shock and guiltily tried to push the page back down into the earth again.

  “Hello, there, David,” A deep, booming and hearty female voice greeted him jovially. “Bit early to be digging up the old garden, isn’t it? Barely sunup, you know, old chap.”

  The speaker was a heavily built and horsy looking woman in her mid fifties, who favoured tweeds, woolen knee socks and ‘sensible’ shoes summer and winter. She was leaning on his fence and peering down at him over her half-glasses. Without waiting for him to reply, she carried on speaking.

  “Out walking Josephine here and spotted you up to your elbows in our good Cambridgeshire loam,” she said.

  Josephine was her pedigreed greyhound, a beautiful, sleek and graceful creature, which waited patiently at her side.

  “Bloody moles got your beans then, have they, Davey boy? Destructive little buggers and hard to get rid of, too. Wouldn’t even make a decent pie if you caught a dozen of ‘em,” she said with a booming laugh.

  So are you, hard to get rid of, you nosey old bitch, Bowen said to himself, but to her he said pleasantly, “They’ve only got a few. Pulled the roots up and I’m just putting them back down.”

  She peered down at the bean plants curiously,

  “You wrap your bean roots in plastic, do you, David? That’s a very odd way to grow vegetables. I’ve never head of that before. Does it work?” she said.

  Bowen laughed.

  “Oh, that. No, I was just kneeling on it and I must have pushed it in there by mistake,” he said.

  “Well, of course you must have. Silly of me to think otherwise. Anyway, you have a nice day, David. I mustn’t keep my little lady waiting any longer, must I?”

  “And a very good day to you too, Miss Hewitt, and thanks for stopping by,” Bowen said pleasantly.

  Brenda Hewitt strode off down the lane towards the monument with her greyhound loping along easily beside her.

  “Bloody little liar,” she said to herself. “That wasn’t any moles doing. He was burying something!”

  Brenda Hewitt, because of her overbearing manner, wasn’t in the usual parish gossip circle but she wasn’t averse to spreading some of her own whenever she saw fit. Today was one of those occasions and it wasn’t by accident that Josephine’s walk this morning took them right by the police station.

  “Lady to see you, Detective Inspector,” Sgt. Barnett said and ushered Brenda Hewitt into his former office. Middleton stood up courteously behind the desk, smiled and shook her hand.

  “Detective Inspector Middleton, ma’am. How can I help you” he asked pleasantly and gestured at a chair in front of his desk. When she was seated, he sat also.

  “I’m Brenda Hewitt, Inspector. Miss Brenda Hewitt,” she said briskly.

  Mary appeared at the door and made a tipping, drinking motion with her hand. Middleton shook his head and waved her away.

  “This might be nothing at all of course, but I was out walking Josephine, she’s my pedigreed greyhound, this morning. Just now, in fact. Josephine won several races in her day and…”

  Middleton coughed discreetly, gently urging her to get to the point.

  “Ah, yes. Well, I saw something that I thought was very odd, Inspector. Very odd indeed, in fact.”

  “And what did you see, Miss Hewitt?” Middleton asked patiently.

  “Ah, yes, well, you see, I stopped to talk to David Bowen. Bit of an oddball, of course. We were passing his back garden at the time. Josephine and I often take that route and…”

  Middleton gave another discreet cough.

  “And you saw what, Miss Hewitt?”

  “Ah, yes, it was something unusual that David was doing,”

  Middleton looked over, saw Bristow standing in the doorway and rolled his eyes as Brenda
Hewitt droned on.

  “He said it was moles that had dug up his beans, but I doubt the truth of that. Moles don’t bury things in plastic bags, do they, Inspector?”

  “When was that, Miss Hewitt,” Middleton asked urgently and leaped to his feet.

  “Oh, just a couple of minutes ago, Inspector. Josephine and I…”

  “Excuse me for being rude, Miss Hewitt, but I really must go.”

  Bristow had heard what she said and already had the car running and the passenger door open. Middleton raced out of the police station, almost tripping over Josephine who was lying, patiently waiting in the outer office.

  Brenda Hewitt sat in his office with her mouth open.

  “Bowen’s place, and fast, Bristow. We’ve just had a hot tip. That old biddy has just seen Bowen bury something in his back garden. If we’re lucky we may just catch him with it,” he said breathlessly.

  “Back garden, sir? Then one of us should go in the front and the other take the lane at the back, right?”

  Middleton nodded and Bristow was all business now, no jokes, and he knew that she could handle Bowen easily if she needed to. More capable than he was, in fact.

  “I’ll take the front and you take the back,” he said as she stopped the car near Bowen’s place. “And, Sally, please be careful because if he was burying what I think he is, either of us could be facing a man with a razor.”

  Bristow nodded.

  “You, too. Be careful.”

  With that, she was out of the car and racing around to the long lane at the back of Bowen’s cottage. It was located about halfway along the lane. She had her bag slung over her shoulder.

  As she sped around the edge of the tall bushes marking the end of the lane, she crashed headlong into David Bowen coming the other way. The impact sent both of them sprawling on the dirt and gravel surface of the lane.

  The canvas shopping bag Bowen was carrying flew out of his one hand as he made a desperate grab for it with the other. It made a small clunking sound as the bag hit the path.

  Bristow, being more agile and physically fit than Bowen, was back on her feet in an instant. Although winded, he made another attempt to grab at the bag with his right hand.

  Bristow, guessing what was inside the bag, stamped heavily on his outstretched right hand fingers. He howled in pain and clutched at them over his abdomen with his other hand.

  “You stupid bloody cow!” he screamed at her as he now lay on his back, writhing in agony. “You’ve broken my fingers!”

  Bristow didn’t say a word. Instead, she took careful aim and kicked him under the chin with her sensible walking shoes. Not exactly standard police procedure, she thought, but equally effective as Bowen’s head snapped back and he stopped yelling.

  The problem with police procedures, Bristow thought, was that the chappie sitting at his desk writing the manual, very likely hadn’t been facing a possible murderer with a cutthroat razor while he was writing it.

  Actually, she couldn’t remember anything at all in her police training that had covered an officer being attacked with a razor.

  She rolled the now unconscious Bowen over on his face and cuffed his hands behind him. She felt his fingers.

  “Our Mr. Bowen is a little prone to exaggeration,” she grinned to herself and rolled him over on to his side. “I hope he actually has a razor in this bag,” she said aloud, as she picked it up, “or I might be in really deep shit this time.”

  But, sure enough, still wrapped in its plastic bag from the garden, was an old fashioned straight razor. The blade was now folded back into its handle and Bristow thought that was a good thing. However much Bowen might have tried to wash the blood off it, it was certain that, if this was the murder weapon, Forensics would find Joe Turner’s DNA inside the handle.

  If it did, David Bowen would be going down for a long, long time and a swift kick in the head would be the least of his worries. For now he’d just have to make do with sore fingers and a headache.

  She reached back into her bag and took out her cell phone. She punched in Middleton’s number.

  “Got him, sir. We’re out here at the end of the lane,” she said. “I think you should get Sgt. Barnett over here with the paddy wagon. I think it’s about time we gave the locals a bit of a show, don’t you?”

  “I do, Bristow, but are you alright?”

  “I am, sir, thank you.”

  “And can I assume that you have all the necessary evidence as well?” he asked.

  “I do, sir.”

  “And what did Mr. Bowen said when you apprehended him?” Middleton asked.

  “He didn’t actually say anything, sir. He just went to sleep and he hasn’t woken up yet.”

  “Oh, my, Bristow, you didn’t!”

  “Yes, sir, I did. Do you not approve?” she asked.

  “Not done according to the book then, Bristow, was it?”

  “No, sir, it wasn’t, but as you are always telling me, sometimes the end justifies the means, and in any case, as far as I’m concerned the bloody book has got a couple of chapters missing.”

  “Good girl, Bristow. I knew I could count on you,” Middleton said.

  “Oh, oh, it looks like my sleeping beauty is awakening. Maybe you’d better get the wagon over here in a hurry, sir.”

  “Why, Bristow, haven’t you cuffed him yet?’

  “Of course I have, but I have a feeling he may say some nasty things that my delicate and ladylike ears are not made to hear, sir,” she said.

  “Exactly how did he get to be unconscious, Bristow?” Middleton asked.

  “I kicked him in the head, sir. Well, under the chin, actually.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Detective Sergeant Bristow,” Middleton said sternly and added cheerfully, “But if he wakes up and says unacceptable things to you, just kick him again and I’ll be there in a minute,” Middleton said and clicked off.

  Bristow looked down at the semi conscious Bowen and wondered idly whether she should kick him again anyway, just to be on the safe side. She decided not to, against her better judgment. This time she just might break the murdering little bugger’s neck and that would take all the fun out of it.

  Anyway, as they say, possession is nine points of the law and he’s got the razor, but we haven’t actually proved he’s even guilty of anything yet.

  No, better not break his neck yet. If he is guilty, a rope can do that later. Bowen had just fluttered his eyes open as Middleton came through the back gate. A moment or two later, siren blaring, the Little Carrington police van drove up to the end of the lane.

  It was the first time in the parish’s history that a police vehicle had ever driven through the village with its siren blaring. Sgt. Barnett wasn’t even sure that it even worked until he had turned it on.

  Within minutes, quite a crowd had gathered, drawn by the noise from the siren, to witness David Bowen’s arrest on suspicion of the murder of Joe Turner. Amongst the crowd was the off duty barman from the Black Bull.

  “I bloody well knew it,” he said to the crowd in general. “Blokes don’t suddenly start drinking Scotch when they’ve been beer drinkers all their lives.”

  “If you knew it, Ray, then why the hell didn’t you tell the cops? He could have easily murdered someone else while you were keeping your little secret,” someone in the crowd yelled and shut him up immediately.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Also present in the crowd watching Bowen’s arrest, was Ives, Sir Alfred’s valet.

  His master was extremely pleased to hear what had happened in the village when Ives related the incident to him and told him the name of the arrested man.

  Allenby wouldn’t be involved in the trial of David Bowen that would surely follow but he could insist that any derogatory mention of either his or his family’s name be inadmissible as evidence. He doubted that such an action would even be necessary but it was always best to be prepared.

  Inspector Middleton had paid him another visit after t
he death of Parker Prentiss but this time he was alone. He had told the Lord of the Manor that he knew that Allenby was German, that he’d been a German spy here in England during the war and that he was not who he claimed to be at all.

  Allenby had been astounded. Not only was he now being blackmailed but here was this policeman telling him that he knew all about it anyway.

  “And what do you propose to do, Inspector?” Allenby asked calmly.

  “I am planning to do something that I really have no right to do, Sir Alfred,” Middleton said. Allenby noted, with interest that the Inspector still referred to him as ‘Sir Alfred’ even though he said he knew he wasn’t.

  “And that is?”

  “I plan to do nothing at all, sir,” Middleton said.

  Allenby was shocked and tried to hide it.

  “Nothing, Inspector? But surely you are duty bound to do something?” he said.

  Middleton replied, “In my job, sir, I make all kinds of decisions, some of them good, some of them bad, but I pride myself in the fact that I will always make one. Today, sir, I am emulating Solomon somewhat in my decision. It is based on what I think will do the least harm overall and what will be best for everyone in your parish.”

  Allenby nodded.

  “I’m listening, Inspector,” he said.

  Middleton continued.

  “Apart from what was done here by you during the war, and people on both sides did much the same thing, you have behaved impeccably since then – in the manner of a true English gentleman. The fact that you weren’t actually born one is, in my humble opinion, irrelevant. You have served this community faithfully and perhaps even better than anyone else either could have, or would have done. And for that, I am supposed to expose you as a fraud – I think not, Sir Alfred.”

  “But the law, Inspector?” Allenby began but Middleton interrupted him.

  “Sir Alfred, you and I both know that the law is an ass, as it has often been said, and this is one of those times that, if action is taken according to the letter of it, everyone, including you, loses. You haven’t actually robbed anyone, except the government perhaps, since there were never any true heirs anyway, were there, sir?”