Death in the Coverts

by Roderic Jeffries

  *

  Charles Cranleigh lived in Trisham, a small village half-way between Avonley and Farston in a part of Kent which had somehow escaped the haphazard development that was inundating and ruining so much of the county.

  He and his wife had bought a sixteenth century Kentish farmhouse, excellently preserved and almost completely original. Within three years they had destroyed all its charm in the name of modernisation. They did not mix with the villagers, finding them stupid and uncouth. For their part, the villagers found them stupid and uncouth.

  Detective Sergeant Orr called at the house at 4.35 on Sunday afternoon. Cranleigh left him in the hall and went through to the sitting-room to speak to his wife. ‘It’s a policeman come to see me.’

  ‘They’ve no right to come bothering us on a Sunday,’ she snapped.

  ‘He only wants to ask some questions about yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t care what he wants. Well, I’m not having him in here and that’s that. If you must speak to him, go into your study, but get rid of him quickly.’

  He returned to the hall and showed Orr into the small room at the end of the house. ‘You won’t be too long, will you? We’re just about to have tea.’

  Orr rubbed his battered nose, the legacy of several years as an amateur boxer. The mention of tea reminded him how thirsty he was. He waited, but there was no offer of a cup. ‘This is just a routine check to see if you can help us any more over yesterday. Whereabouts were you standing?’

  ‘I was at number two stand and it’s no lie to say not a single bird came within range of me. I don’t mind admitting the shoot costs me over six hundred quid a year and when a bloke pays out that sort of money he expects something back in return.’

  Orr had taken an instinctive dislike to this tall, thin, foppishly dressed man and he felt glad the shoot had proved so unprofitable. ‘Did you see the dead man at all during the time you were at number two stand?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Why do you say of course not?’

  ‘You can’t see anyone else. The place is a jungle.’

  ‘And you didn’t leave your place?’

  ‘I certainly didn’t, no.’

  ‘Just having to check up on everything, Mr Cranleigh. Tell me, would you say that Mr Rafferty was always very careless with his gun?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say anything of the sort. Julian Decker was always complaining about it, but you can’t keep a gun pointing at the ground all the time. With him, it’s anything to find fault. What if Bill did swing his gun round a bit?’

  ‘Then things must have got a bit dangerous from time to time?’

  ‘He kept the safety catch on mostly. Anyway, as often as not the gun wasn’t even loaded.’

  ‘What size shot were you using?’

  ‘What size shot? What’s that to do with the police?’

  ‘It’s part of the inquiries, sir.’

  ‘What I use, or don’t use, hasn’t anything to do with the inquiries. He shot himself

  and that’s an end to it.’

  ‘Are you refusing to say?’

  ‘What d’you mean, refusing? Certainly not.’

  ‘I thought you were.’

  ‘Not in the sense you’re trying to make out. I know my rights, Sergeant, and I…’

  ‘What size shot were you using?’

  ‘Well… It was number five. Julian Decker always uses number five for pheasants or driven duck.’

  Orr wrote in his note-book.

  ‘What are you putting that down for?’ demanded Cranleigh.

  ‘As I said earlier, we just have to check.’ Orr looked up. ‘Were you pretty friendly with Mrs Rafferty?’

  Cranleigh stared with sudden consternation and fear at the detective. He turned and quickly looked at the door as if he expected his wife to come into the study. ‘That… that’s a lie.’

  ‘Then you don’t know her at all?’

  ‘Of course I know her. But I’m not friendly with her like you’ve just said. You’ve no right to come here and make those dirty insinuations…’

  ‘I haven’t insinuated anything.’

  ‘You were deliberately suggesting that… that there was something…’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘I’ll complain to the chief constable about this. By God, I will. He’s a personal friend of mine: d’you know that?’

  ‘He’s a very friendly man, but he issued an order a year ago that when it came to work the force was to understand that he didn’t have any friends.’

  ‘Well I… I know him very well.’ Cranleigh, realising how weak his threat now sounded, became defensive in manner. ‘Look, it’s not nice of you to come here and suggest that sort of thing.’

  Orr thought of the other as a self-inflating balloon which deflated at the slightest prick. ‘I gather one or two people have joked with you about it. Is that right?’

  ‘I’m happily married. My wife’s in the other room. You can’t… you can’t say that sort of thing.’ Cranleigh slowly sat down.

  ‘They do say that where there’s smoke there’s fire?’

  Cranleigh took a handkerchief from the top pocket of his blazer, on which was a large gold crest, and mopped his forehead. ‘There’s nothing to it: nothing at all.’

  ‘Are you quite certain?’

  ‘Look, I may have had a little joke, but honest to God that’s the beginning and end of it. Just because I’ve joked about knowing Daphne, that doesn’t mean… mean anything. It was only that… Look, I’m very happily married and I wouldn’t mess around with another woman. If you’re married, you’ll understand that?’

  ‘I’m married, but I’ve never joked about going a course with another woman.’

  Cranleigh suddenly stood up. ‘Who’s been on to you about this? Who’s been spreading these rumours?’

  Orr merely shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I suppose it was one of the others. That’s the kind of thing they’d do.’ Cranleigh lit a cigarette with hands that trembled. ‘All right, if you’re so busy prying you find out about Phil Wade. Him and Bill Rafferty like each other like cat and dog: you ask Phil about the way he was losing control of his business. That ought to give you something concrete to check up on.’

  ‘We’ll certainly look into the matter.’

  There was a pause. ‘You won’t tell him I’ve said anything, will you?’ pleaded Cranleigh.

  You poor wet bastard, thought Orr.

  *

  Doherty interviewed Wade on the Monday morning, in the latter’s office in Ferry Road. Doherty was shown into the large, luxuriously furnished office by an ugly woman of uncertain age. Wade came round his desk and shook hands and once again Doherty was struck by the almost unblinking stare of the other’s pale-blue eyes: reptilian, was the description that occurred to him.

  ‘This is an expected pleasure,’ said Wade, in his soft voice.

  ‘Expected?’

  ‘I’ve heard the police are making inquiries so it was reasonable to assume you would be along to see me. I presume that the shooting wasn’t just a straightforward accident?’

  ‘We don’t yet know, sir.’

  ‘Or are you not yet committing yourselves? No matter, we expect the police to be the silent service. Sit down, Inspector. You’ll find that the red chair is fairly comfortable.’

  Doherty sat down in the heavy leather arm-chair.

  ‘A cigarette? Or are you a member of the small, but no doubt healthy, minority who eschew the vice?’

  ‘I’d like one very much, thanks.’

  Wade proffered a gold cigarette case. He spoke again as he flicked open a gold lighter and gave Doherty a light. ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘A check up on where you were standing at King’s Beat and what size shot you were using.’

  ‘I was number one gun, which entailed walking down with the beaters to the crossride and then hurrying down behind the other guns to the stand. Some time ago I queried why it was not number seven g
un who came down with the beaters, so saving the final extra walk, but Julian Decker made the not inconsiderable point that the birds which break forward early almost invariably go over number seven so that there must be a gun there from the beginning. Very few birds ever seem to go over number one.’

  ‘What size shot were you using?’

  ‘What’s the significance of that?’

  ‘Just a matter of routine, sir.’

  ‘An unnecessary routine if it was an accident.’

  ‘I haven’t suggested it was anything else.’ Doherty watched the other smile briefly and thought he had never seen an expression of less humour.

  ‘Inspector, this world is run by what isn’t said. If Bill died from a straight accident, you couldn’t possibly be interested in the size of shot I use.’

  Doherty said nothing.

  ‘What are the possibilities? I suppose the accident at the hands of someone else, or murder. Did someone kill him in cold blood? I’d say that’s highly likely. He was an unlikeable man who’d been very successful: success naturally breeds dislike so that he was doubly unpopular.’

  ‘I’m told you know something about his business successes?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Wasn’t he gaining control of your business?’

  Wade became motionless except for his right hand, resting on top of the desk, which clenched and unclenched.

  ‘Is it true you were in business conflict with him?’

  ‘Who’s been shouting from the rooftops?’ Wade spoke harshly. Then, with great self-control, he reverted to his previous light sarcasm. ‘One of the other two, of course, and my old pal Charlie as first guess. The poor man’s Casanova. The sexual athlete, or the five women miler.’

  ‘We’re already checking on a point or two there, sir.’

  ‘Good. Then I needn’t drop any more hints.’

  ‘As shooting partners, you seem to have had your differences?’

  ‘It was our dislike of each other that kept us together. Hatred is the most binding of human emotions.’

  ‘Then you hated Rafferty?’

  Wade leaned back in his chair. ‘I am a clever businessman, but now that he is dead and out of the way I’ll admit that Bill Rafferty was just fractionally more clever: perhaps it was because he did not underrate me, but I assessed him at his true worth. My business was about to fall into his hands at considerable loss to me.’

  ‘You certainly had reason to hate him, then?’

  ‘Shall we say that I had no cause to love him. I want to make it clear that my dislike would never have prodded me into physical action. I’m very strong on words, but very weak on action.’

  ‘There’s little action attached to the pulling of the trigger of a shotgun.’

  ‘But think of the violent mental action necessary.’

  ‘Now he’s dead, what’ll happen to your business?’

  ‘I’ll save it. Joe Abbotts, Rafferty’s business associate, whipping boy, yes man, and clown, is essentially a fool. I shall be all right.’

  ‘Rafferty’s death can be called providential for you?’

  ‘Exceedingly. To such an extent it shakes my faith as an atheist.’

  Doherty stubbed out the cigarette. He studied Wade’s face. ‘You haven’t said what size shot you use?’

  ‘Six and a half. When it was brought out a few years ago it seemed to me a sensible compromise. In any case, I am reluctant to use the same as Julian Decker and, as a direct consequence, all the others. Had he stood on his head to shoot, they would have endeavoured to do the same.’

  ‘Why shoot at Hurstley Place if you disliked everyone so much?’

  ‘I’ve already said, it was our mutual dislike which formed the bond. In any case, it’s the best shoot in this part of Kent.’

  ‘There’s one last question, Mr Wade. When you walked down the ride behind the other guns, did you see anyone?’

  ‘Miss Harmsworth went into the Larch Plantation with her dog to pick-up. And, of course, before that there was the beater who was on the top ride as a stop.’

  ‘But no one else?’

  ‘No one. And let me assure you that had I seen anyone I’d have absolutely no hesitation in telling you.’

  Doherty stood up. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you’re searching for a motive, have a think about Bill and the Deckers.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  Wade’s eyelids seemed to close slightly. ‘I’m surprised no one’s mentioned it?’

  ‘When I know what you’re talking about, I’ll know if anyone’s spoken.’

  ‘Bill was the complete and utter snob, an infliction that strikes undeveloped intellects. He had one social ambition in life: to be asked with his wife to dine with the Deckers. The fact that this was one of the most unlikely events of the century merely spurred on his ridiculous ambition. On Saturday, he was boasting that the Deckers were going to have to receive him and his wife. He was even willing to bet on it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You consider that of no account?’

  ‘I can’t possibly say at the moment.’

  Wade began to tap on the desk with his fingers.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ said Doherty. He walked across to the door.

  ‘What size shot did you say killed him?’ asked Wade.

  ‘I didn’t,’ replied Doherty, as he opened the door.

  Chapter Six

  On Tuesday morning it rained in a steady and sullen downpour. At Hurstley Place, the lights in the dining-room were switched on to enable the family to see to eat their breakfast.

  ‘Bloody weather,’ muttered Fawcett. He turned round in his wheel-chair and stared out of the nearest full-length window.

  ‘Rain always makes me feel sad,’ said Lydia Decker. ‘As a little girl, whenever it rained I used to go and hide under the billiards table…’

  ‘The last time you told the story it was the cupboard under the stairs,’ interrupted Fawcett.

  ‘Was it, dear? Well, I know it was one or the other. There’s not really very much difference, is there, when you think that it was the rain which caused it all.’

  Julian pushed the letters and bills which had arrived by the morning post to the side of his place at the huge table at which they sat: it would seat twenty-four people in elbow comfort and he frequently suggested they should use a much smaller one, but his mother always found some objection to this. He studied Fawcett. His brother was still in one of his black moods which meant that the rest of them had to exercise all the patience they could muster.

  ‘I think I’ll go and live somewhere sunny like the south of Spain,’ said Lydia.

  ‘You know wild horses wouldn’t drag you away from this place,’ said Fawcett.

  ‘I shall be moving to the dower house when Julian marries.’

  ‘You’ll still be physically close to here. This damned estate has become a set of shackles around each of us. If we sold up now with the price of land it is, we’d get half a million for it which would give an income of twenty-five thousand. We could get abroad and begin to live. Instead of which, we stay on here in a house twenty times too big for us and worry year in and year out because we’ve hardly enough income to buy collar studs.’

  Julian stood up and crossed to one of the serving tables. He poured himself out another cupful of coffee. ‘With the politics as they are, it’s better to have money tied up in land than lying around loose as capital.’

  ‘I’m not talking about keeping the money in this country so that those communist bastards in parliament can pinch it. Get the money out: go and live in the Bahamas: forget you’re a Decker and your land was enfeoffed to the Lanchvilles soon after William the Conqueror was around. You don’t think this country wants to have anything more to do with you? We’re the filthy rich: we live on the life-blood of our tenants who pay us a rent that was barely economic before the war.’ Fawcett turned the wheel-chair
round and hurried it across the floor to the nearest door. He pushed the door open and went out.

  Back in the dining-room, they could hear swish of the rubber tyres and a squeak that occurred once every turn of the wheels.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Lydia. ‘He’s very ill again. It all seems so hopeless, Julian. When he started becoming ill your father and I took him to many specialists in this country and even to two in Berlin, but it was no good. He surely doesn’t really think we should sell Hurstley?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You seem to know him so much better than I do these days. He couldn’t really mean that, could he? It’s a kind of trust for all the generations. Your children will have children and they’ll inherit the estate and pass it on to their children. Sometimes, it makes me think it explains a little of what life’s about. I used to say that to your father and he’d laugh. He said that only those who had nothing proved the continuity of existence since they passed on all they possessed. At least, I think that’s what he said. D’you think it makes sense?’

  Julian went back to his chair, one of a set of eighteen Hepplewhites, and sat down. ‘It probably does.’

  ‘Julian, you’re distrait. Has there been bad news in the post? I’ve always hated the post. People ought to have the decency not to write bad news as breakfast certainly isn’t the time to receive it.’

  ‘There are just the usual crop of bills. The estimate for the roof of the wing is fifteen hundred, so it’ll have to wait.’

  ‘It can’t wait or the weather will ruin the timber. I shall pay for it.’

  ‘Mother, your money…’

  ‘Is my money and I can spend it how I want. The only use of money is to spend it, your dear father always used to say. I remember his telling that to a bank manager when he was obtaining some sort of overdraft. The bank manager was a very earnest man and he tried to suggest your father carried on his financial affairs differently. I’m sure he was only trying to help, but it so annoyed your father that he went straight out and lost a hundred pounds on the Two Thousand Guineas. Or was it the Oaks? I don’t remember. What’s Fawcett worrying about?’

  Julian buttered another piece of toast and helped himself to more marmalade. I’m afraid I’ve no idea.’