Suspicious Death

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘And his wife was there, too?’

  ‘No. But I didn’t know that then, did I?’

  ‘Look,’ said the sergeant, ‘I’m getting a bit confused. Let’s go back, start at the beginning. Were Mr and Mrs Salden both here last evening?’

  ‘Early on, yes. They was having a dinner party, see.’

  Hence the beaded dress, thought Thanet.

  ‘Many guests?’ said Lineham.

  ‘No, only two. Mr Lomax and … Miss Trimble.’

  An interestingly scornful inflection, there, Thanet thought.

  Lineham frowned. ‘Lomax … An unusual name … That wouldn’t be Mr Douglas Lomax, the borough councillor, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  Well done, Mike.

  ‘And Miss Trimble?’

  ‘Lives in the village. She’s always round here. Mrs Salden encouraged her.’ Mrs Pantry gave a disapproving sniff and brushed an imaginary piece of fluff off her nylon overall as if dismissing the undesirable Miss Trimble as of no importance.

  ‘She works here?’

  A derisive snort. ‘She’s a hairdresser in Sturrenden. That unisex place at the bottom of the High Street.’

  It certainly sounded an ill-assorted dinner party, thought Thanet. With an unusually small number of guests. A married couple might invite another couple for an informal supper, but to give a dinner party for a borough councillor and a hairdresser … He scented intrigue. What had been going on?

  ‘I see,’ said Lineham. ‘So what time did these guests arrive?’

  ‘Josie – Miss Trimble – came first. Bang on 7.30.’ Unfashionably punctual, her expression said. ‘Mr Lomax got here about a quarter of an hour later.’

  Mrs Salden, it seemed, had come downstairs shortly after Josie’s arrival and had come into the kitchen to tell Mrs Pantry that dinner might have to be delayed, as the nurse had rung from old Mrs Carter’s cottage to say that the old lady was asking for Mr Salden. He had left at once, having arranged to ring at about eight to tell his wife what time he was likely to be back.

  ‘Odd, wasn’t it?’ said Lineham. ‘Asking for him, rather than for her daughter?’

  A reproving look. ‘Mrs Carter was very fond of Mr Salden. Like a son he was, to her.’

  ‘I see. So it wasn’t unusual for the nurse to ring up and ask him to go and see the old lady?’

  ‘Well …’ For the first time, Mrs Pantry seemed unsure of her ground. ‘I dunno. I can’t say, I’m sure. I don’t know what half their phone calls is about. It’s just that last night I had to know, see, because of dinner getting spoiled.’

  ‘Quite … So what happened then?’

  At eight o’clock Mr Salden had rung to say that he would be staying on at the cottage for a while, and that dinner should proceed without him.

  ‘Mrs Salden didn’t think of cancelling the dinner party?’ said Lineham.

  ‘Oh no. Why should she? She wasn’t to know it’d be any different this time. Mrs Carter has been ill for over a year, very ill … Cancer … There’s been many, many times when they thought she wouldn’t last the night, but she did. And when that keeps on happening, you get to expect just another false alarm, don’t you?’

  Lineham nodded. ‘True.’

  Mrs Pantry had then served dinner, and as soon as they had finished the last course, at about half-past nine, Mrs Salden had apparently rung the cottage, because a few minutes later she had come into the kitchen to say that she was just going to pop down to see her mother and to ask Mrs Pantry to serve coffee in the drawing-room. She didn’t expect to be long.

  ‘The guests didn’t leave at that point?’

  A disapproving sniff. ‘Not they. Anyway,’ she added grudgingly, ‘as I was carrying the tray of coffee through I did hear Mrs Salden ask that Josie to wait till she got back, as she especially wanted to speak to her.’

  ‘But she didn’t come back?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Mr Lomax left about a quarter or twenty past ten, and I went to bed soon after.’

  ‘So you didn’t hear either Mr or Mrs Salden come in, or Miss Trimble leave?’

  ‘No. But she stayed rill eleven, I believe.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘There’s a note for Mr Salden, on the table in the hall. I was dusting,’ she added defensively, ‘and couldn’t help seeing it.’

  Lineham was looking at Thanet. Anything else you want to ask?

  Thanet gave an imperceptible shake of the head and stood up. ‘This note, Mrs Pantry. Is it still on the table in the hall?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Let’s go and see, shall we?’

  He waited while she reluctantly dragged herself to her feet.

  THREE

  Mrs Pantry led them to a long oak table set against the wall at the far side of the hall and picked up a piece of paper. ‘Here it is.’ She handed it to Thanet.

  10.35. Marcia

  Bernard rang. Is staying on at Holly Cottage. Don’t wait up.

  Josie.

  P.S.

  Waited until 11 p.m. then gave up. See you tomorrow, after work. J.

  Edith Phipps had been hovering near the stairs and now she approached them. ‘Excuse me, Inspector. I thought you’d like to know. Mr Salden’s home.’

  Thanet turned. ‘Oh, thank you. Where is he?’

  ‘In the drawing-room. Through there.’ She pointed.

  A knock at the door, then a second, brought no response. Thanet waited a moment longer, then lifted the latch and went in.

  The room was long and low, ceiling and walls striped with ancient, honey-coloured oak beams infilled with white-painted plaster. Thanet didn’t think much of Marcia Salden’s taste; instead of the old rugs, mellow colours and antique furniture which the room demanded, it was furnished with a heavily patterned fitted carpet, modern dralon three-piece suite and – most incongruous of all – in the far corner, a cocktail bar. Salden was slumped in an armchair beside the inglenook fireplace. As they came in he raised his head in a dazed fashion and then put his hands on the arms of the chair preparatory to levering himself up, as if his legs alone were incapable of taking the strain.

  ‘Please,’ said Thanet, trying not to stare too obviously at an enlarged photograph hanging on the wall near by. Surely that was Princess Anne shaking hands with Salden? ‘Don’t get up.’

  He introduced himself and he and Lineham sat down.

  ‘I understand that you have identified your wife?’

  Salden nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Salden said nothing. He was considerably older than his wife, in his late fifties, Thanet guessed. Short and overweight, with round face, thinning hair and an aura of soft living, he would have passed unnoticed in any group of middle-aged businessmen, his conventional dark suit, sober tie and well-polished shoes almost the uniform of his class and status. Only the dazed look of someone in shock would have singled him out.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. For the first time his eyes focussed on Thanet’s face. ‘What happened?’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you feel you can answer a few questions?’

  A nod.

  ‘When did you last see your wife, Mr Salden?’

  Salden’s forehead wrinkled, as if this were an impossibly difficult question. ‘I … Oh God, I can’t seem to think straight. I’m sorry.’ He rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘It must have been, oh, between a quarter and half-past seven last night.’

  ‘When you left to go down to the village, to visit your mother-in-law?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you spoke to Mrs Salden after that, I understand.’

  Salden stared at Thanet. ‘Did I? Oh, yes, you’re right, I did. On the phone. I rang to tell her not to hold dinner for me. We had guests, you see.’

  ‘You were sufficiently worried about your mother-in-law not to want to leave her?’

  ‘Well, it was partly that. B
ut she’d been asking for me, and when I got to the cottage she was asleep. I thought I’d better wait until she woke up. Over these last few months there’s been little enough we could do for her except be there, when she wanted us.’

  ‘Yes, I see. But you spoke to your wife again later, I believe?’

  ‘Did I?’ repeated Salden. He frowned, shook his head. ‘No I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t she ring the cottage herself, soon after half-past nine?’

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean. Yes, Mrs Pantry told me … No, she must have spoken to Nurse Lint. I’d gone out, by then.’

  ‘But I understood you stayed with your mother-in-law until she died, in the early hours of this morning.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But I went out for a walk, earlier. Just for some fresh air …’

  ‘So you didn’t see your wife, when she went down to the cottage, after dinner?’

  ‘No. Nurse Lint told me she’d left shortly before I got back.’

  ‘And then you decided to stay on at the cottage.’

  ‘That’s right. It seemed to me that my mother-in-law had taken a turn for the worse, so I rang home to tell Marcia – my wife – not to wait up for me. But she hadn’t arrived back, so I left a message with Josie – Josie Trimble, one of our guests.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have expected her to want to come back down to the cottage herself, to be with her mother?’

  ‘No. It was my turn, you see. Win – my mother-in-law – had cancer, the lingering sort, and over the last few months we’ve both spent many nights at the cottage, thinking that she wouldn’t last until morning. In the end we arranged that we’d take it in turns to sit with her. I assure you that my wife did everything possible to make her mother’s life as comfortable as she could. She even got her a full-time nurse, to live in …’

  ‘Please, Mr Salden … I wasn’t criticising your wife, merely trying to understand what happened last night. So you’re saying that she left your mother-in-law’s house at – what time?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Nurse Lint would be able to tell you, I expect. Before I got back from my walk at about half-past ten, anyway.’

  ‘And how would she have got there?’

  Salden frowned. ‘Well, normally she would have gone by car. But there must be something wrong with it. It’s still in the garage. It was the first thing I checked this morning, when we found she was missing, and I tried it. It wouldn’t start.’

  ‘These keys were in her pocket.’

  Salden leaned forward to look at them. ‘Yes, those are hers. So she must have decided to walk. It only takes a few minutes to get to the village, cutting across by the footpath. And I noticed the torch was missing from her car.’

  A footpath … ‘Does it run near the river, at any point?’

  ‘Yes. It emerges into the village just beside the bridge.’

  Salden’s gaze suddenly became blank, fixed. His mouth quivered. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the contours of his face began to blur and slacken. His eyes glistened, then tears began to spill out and trickle down his cheeks.

  ‘Mr Salden …’

  Salden gave no sign of having heard. The silent tears continued to run unchecked down the plump, quivering cheeks and then, abruptly, his face contorting into a gargoyle mask of grief, he dropped his head into his hands and began to sob, a harsh, broken, ugly sound.

  Any further questioning of Salden would have to wait for the moment. Thanet glanced at Lineham then rose and crossed to lay a consoling hand on the man’s shoulder. After all these years in the force he still found the sight of naked grief hard to bear.

  In the hall Mrs Pantry was just answering the front door. ‘Oh, Mr Fothergill. Do come in.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The small, wiry figure of a man in his late twenties stepped briskly into the hall. He was wearing corduroys, a tweed sports jacket and a clerical collar. ‘Is this true, what Jack Kimberley tells me? That Mrs Salden has been drowned?’

  The vicar had presumably run into PC Kimberley outside.

  The housekeeper nodded.

  Thanet came forward. ‘I’m afraid so. I’m Detective Inspector Thanet of Sturrenden CID, and this is Sergeant Lineham.’

  Mrs Pantry quietly withdrew.

  ‘Richard Fothergill. Vicar of Telford Green.’ He extended a hand and Thanet shook it.

  ‘I’d just come to offer my condolences to Mrs Salden, on her mother’s death. But this … This is terrible. Terrible.’ The thin mobile face was clouded with genuine distress. ‘First Mrs Hammer, then Mrs Carter, now Mrs Salden. Three deaths in one week …’

  ‘Mrs Hammer?’

  ‘An old lady who lived in the village. She’d been failing for some time, like Mrs Carter, Mrs Salden’s mother. But Mrs Salden … This is terrible,’ he repeated. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was pulled out of the river at Donnington Weir this morning. The police surgeon thinks she must have gone in some time last night. More than that we don’t know, as yet.’

  ‘And Bernard … Mr Salden? How is he? How is he taking it?’

  ‘Badly, by the look of it. He seems very distressed. I’m glad you’ve come, perhaps you’ll be able to help him.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll call the doctor, if necessary. And between us Edith Phipps and I will be able to manage the administration to do with his mother-in-law’s death, arrange for the undertakers to come and remove her body and so on. Where is he?’

  ‘In the drawing-room …’

  Thanet watched the vicar knock softly on the door and go in, then turned to Lineham. ‘Did you notice where Miss Phipps disappeared to, Mike?’

  ‘In there.’ The Sergeant nodded at a door on the opposite side of the hall.

  ‘Right. Look, give these keys to Kimberley and ask him to see if he can get Mrs Salden’s car started. Tell him I want to talk to him after I’ve seen Miss Phipps. Then join me.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Thanet crossed the hall and knocked at the door Lineham had indicated.

  ‘Come in.’

  FOUR

  It was another beautiful room, with leaded lights, huge fireplace and oak-panelled walls. Thanet guessed that it had once been a dining-room, or a library, perhaps. Now it had been downgraded to an office, and Edith Phipps, surrounded by all the paraphernalia of a thriving business, was seated at a modern desk using a computer.

  The desk looked strangely askew, thought Thanet. Then he realised why: there was a second desk in the room, Marcia Salden’s, presumably, and Miss Phipps had pushed hers into a position where she would no longer permanently have it in her field of vision.

  She rose, looking apprehensive, as Thanet came in, and he waved her back to her seat. ‘Please …’

  He crossed to the window and stood with his back to the room gazing out. The avenue of tall trees was immediately ahead, and to the left there was a fine view across sweeping lawns flanked with shrub borders to parkland dotted with mature specimen trees. Over to the extreme right was a wood.

  Thanet nodded towards it. ‘That where Harry Greenleaf lives?’

  Miss Phipps looked surprised at the unexpected question. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long has he been there?’

  ‘About ten years, I suppose. He just sort of, well, materialised. One day we just heard he was living there, and he’s been there ever since. Mr Gentry – the former owner of the Manor – didn’t mind.’

  ‘There was no formal tenancy agreement?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that.’

  ‘I see. And the Saldens, I understand, have been here only eighteen months or so.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Which is why local feeling is so strongly on his side? I suppose people feel he has a prior claim, so to speak.’

  Miss Phipps hesitated. ‘It’s not that, exactly. It’s difficult to explain, really. I suppose they feel that Harry isn’t doing anyone any harm and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be left in peace. He keeps himself to himself, see
ms quite content with his chickens and his goat … And I suppose people feel sorry for him, too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was in some sort of accident … A fire … Nobody knows the details. But it must have been a bad one. He had to have plastic surgery, and the result is … Well, I think he’s probably pretty self-conscious about it. People can understand him wanting to live like a hermit …’

  ‘So why was Mrs Salden so determined to evict him?’

  Miss Phipps shook her head. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You must have some idea, surely?’ He glanced at the other desk. ‘As her secretary you’ll have spent a good deal of time together. She must have talked to you about it?’

  There was a knock at the door. It was Lineham.

  ‘Sit down, Sergeant. We were just talking about Harry Greenleaf.’ Thanet sat down himself, in one of the chairs provided for visitors, swivelling it around so that he was facing her.

  ‘Yes, she did, of course.’ Miss Phipps was leafing through some papers. ‘But she never actually told me why she was so keen to get rid of him. You might like to see this.’ She held out a single sheet. ‘I typed it yesterday afternoon.’

  Thanet took the paper but did not look at it immediately. ‘She may not have told you, but I suspect you had a pretty shrewd idea …?’

  Miss Phipps lowered her eyes, gave a self-deprecating little smile and began to fiddle with a loose thread on one of the buttons of her cardigan. ‘Well …’

  Thanet waited.

  She darted a brief, assessing glance at him. ‘It’s only a guess, mind …’

  Thanet gave an understanding nod.

  ‘I think,’ she said, abandoning the button and meeting Thanet’s gaze squarely, ‘I think it was because … Marcia liked to be in control, you see. She liked things to go her way … I think the fact that Harry was living on her land, cocking a snoot at her, so to speak, if you’ll forgive the expression … She didn’t like it. He was a, well, a thorn in her flesh.’

  Thanet was nodding. ‘Yes, I see … Thank you.’ He glanced down at the paper in his hand. It was a carbon copy of a letter from Marcia Salden to Harry Greenleaf pointing out that it was now two weeks past the date when he should have left her land and informing him that she had taken steps to enforce the court order. Bailiffs would therefore arrive to evict him tomorrow morning and they would be accompanied by a bulldozer which would demolish the hut in which he lived.