Classic in the Dock

by Amy Myers

  ‘What happened?’ I asked Lucy, who had emerged beaming with pleasure from behind the bar with Andrew, still wearing his apron.

  ‘Good news, for us,’ she said. ‘Mr Compton’s turned down George Makepeace’s offer. Mr Ranger brought in a letter from him and a few minutes later the Makepeaces arrived in force to back George up.’

  Andrew was very quiet, I noticed, as I congratulated Lucy. ‘That’s really good news,’ I said to her.

  ‘What’s good about it?’ Andrew muttered.

  Lucy looked horrified. ‘That’s what we wanted. It means we can stay here.’

  ‘But face it, Lucy. This place is a dump.’ Andrew seemed torn between anger and tears. ‘What are you staring at?’ he yelled at me. ‘Nothing to do with you.’

  ‘As I’ve just been knocked down your steps by one of your customers, the Hop and Harry is very much to do with me.’

  To this, Andrew had no reply and marched off leaving me puzzled and Lucy completely flummoxed. ‘He’s just having a bad day. He gets dispirited,’ she told me bravely, ‘but perhaps he got the wrong end of the stick.’

  It seemed to me that Andrew had got very much the right end of the stick – it just happened to be a different stick to Lucy’s. She went to talk to Nan who seemed to have done a good peacemaking job, as for the time being the warring parties had called a truce. The noise level dropped and people began to move back inside. I went with them and Paul and Stephanie Ranger came to check that I was in one piece.

  ‘You seem to be everywhere, Mr Colby,’ Paul said.

  ‘I am. I enjoy being knocked about.’

  ‘What are you here for?’ Stephanie demanded.

  ‘A quiet Saturday lunchtime drink.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’re still convinced that Mafioso friend of yours is innocent.’

  I wasn’t amused. ‘Mafioso? Giovanni? You have to be joking.’ But I could see she wasn’t and it wasn’t a joke.

  ‘His family then,’ Stephanie said dismissively.

  ‘Stephanie!’ Paul said sharply, with the result that she stopped the attack and turned back into jolly mood.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I know he’s a friend of yours. Only a figure of speech.’

  Paul switched subjects. ‘You’ve heard that the Hop and Harry is safe now?’

  ‘I have. That’s good news. Is it final?’

  ‘While Peter is alive, yes.’

  That might not be long, judging by the look on Jamie Makepeace’s face as he overheard this exchange. He moved towards us, hotly pursued by Bronte who could obviously see trouble coming. Paul speedily took his wife’s arm and shepherded her to the bar to order drinks.

  ‘Upper-class twits,’ Jamie hurled after them. ‘Don’t care a damn about the rest of us working to make something of this village. You and that father of yours, Mrs Ranger.’

  Bronte flushed. ‘Don’t you dare, Jamie. My grandfather does what he thinks right. Which is what your grandfather does too.’

  ‘He does what any sensible person would. You have to admit it, Bron. Peter Compton’s a dog in a manger.’

  ‘Only because yours is set on ruining this village, Jamie. A lot of people will stand by Grandpa when push comes to shove.’

  Jamie bristled. ‘Including you, Bron?’

  In a trice the situation had turned from disagreement to crisis, a position from which neither could retreat. Certainly not Bronte. ‘Yes, Jamie. Including me,’ she hurled back at him.

  The turkey cock forgot his common sense. ‘That’s it then, Bron. The wedding’s off.’

  I hoped Nan would step in but he was nowhere to be seen. The turkey cock folded his arms, waiting for an apology or retraction, but it never came.

  ‘No problem, Jamie,’ Bronte cried loud and clear.

  Still no sign of Nan, so I intervened. I had to, because as Bronte walked away Jamie grabbed her arm to yank her back. I quickly detached him, saying firmly, ‘Leave it, both of you. Sort it out later, when you’ve calmed down.’

  They took no notice. Jamie gave a sort of howl, while Bronte ran out of the pub. I thought he’d go after her, but he didn’t. He just stood there.

  ‘Do it, Jamie,’ I urged him. ‘Run after her. Hug her.’

  But he just went on standing there with folded arms to show what a big gun he was, poor lad.

  At last George came up to him and put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. I’d noticed he had been watching what was going on and hadn’t looked pleased. It would have suited his book much better to have Bronte as a bargaining point in the feud, but the row must have its good side for him. His objective now would be to make hay while the sun temporarily shone in that direction.

  He fixed Paul and Stephanie in his sights. ‘And you two banking on young Bronte being cast off without a penny. Ten to one that young madam has her eye on the farm.’

  ‘More to the point,’ Paul retaliated drily, ‘what do you do now the pub is safe?’

  ‘Safe?’ George snarled. ‘This pub’s coming down to make way for the new road. Never doubt that.’

  ‘But it won’t, George, not now,’ Lucy said happily.

  ‘Won’t it? You talk to your husband about that, young lady.’

  Having scored this point, to Lucy’s distress and general bewilderment, George surveyed the rest of his audience. ‘There’s already been mischief done in Plumshaw. They think he’s locked up good and proper and it’s over. But there’ll be more. I can promise you that.’

  I was bemused. A pub brawl is never an edifying event, whether it be physical or verbal. I felt I had been battered by both. I had no stake in the fight between old and new Plumshaw, unless it had something to do with the murder of Hugh Compton. Were Jamie and Bronte really going to let the rest of their lives be swayed by squabbles over land issues? It seemed to me they were indeed trapped between the two sides.

  The struggle for the Hop and Harry would not be the end of the matter. Battle lines were definitely being drawn. Without the consent of the Comptons to the sale of the Hop and Harry, I’d assumed that there would be no point in the Makepeace applications for planning permission for the new road being submitted, but there I was wrong. Martin had turned up just as I was leaving and when I told him what had happened he grimaced.

  ‘They’ll steamroller ahead whatever Compton says. You’ll see. Either George will put in an application for roads round the side and rear of the pub so that it’s marooned between major roads or something else will happen to change Peter Compton’s mind.’

  ‘The murder of his son hasn’t changed anything,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Things are moving, Jack, whether we like it or not. The housing development can still go ahead, whether or not the industrial site and road do. Plenty of people need the houses with or without the jobs on the doorstep. Nothing to stop the odd shop going up with it. Every development could do with a convenience store.’

  ‘Unless the protesters win their battle against any development.’

  ‘I’d like to think you’re right, but I don’t see it.’

  Driving home I began to feel sorry for the Comptons. They were stuck in their way of life, true, but then so were their opponents in that they could only see progress in terms of bricks and mortar. Somewhere in the middle of this battle, however, Hugh Compton had lost his life, and Jamie and Bronte had their marriage plans ruined. Nan, the peacemaker, had failed for once.

  I ran through it once more in my head as I turned off the A20 on to the Pluckley road. Nothing in Hugh Compton’s murder made sense. If Giovanni was guilty – though I couldn’t believe he was – why on earth would he have bothered to return to the scene of the crime in order to lug Hugh, dead or alive, somewhere else? On the other hand, if he was innocent, how could the blood in the car be explained?

  When I reached Frogs Hill there was no comfort to be found. No sign of Louise and, being a weekend, no Zoe or Len. There was no sign of Maria either. At this stage, I’d have been grateful to see her pottering around in the garden despite the draw
backs of her presence. There was, however, a message from Dave asking me to ring him. In fact he had rung yesterday and in the excitement of Louise’s return I hadn’t checked either the mobile or landline.

  ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’ he asked sourly, by which I deduced he was at home.

  ‘Busy on your Land Rover case.’

  ‘Ah. Well, since you’re nosing around Plumshaw, you’d better take into account what Brandon authorized me to tell you.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I didn’t like the sound of this.

  ‘Update of the path report,’ Dave replied. ‘It’s confirmed Hugh Compton had been in the water about two days, and he probably died not long before he went in. A day at the most. And, in case you’re feeling sorry for the poor bloke, he’d eaten a good meal before he met his end.’

  ‘That’s good news for Giovanni then. It takes him out of the picture.’

  ‘Not according to Brandon’s way of thinking. Your chum could have hidden the body and come out to dispose of it later—’

  ‘You said he died not long before he went in.’

  ‘Could have died of wounds received earlier, Jack. And Giovanni being a good-natured chap fed him a nice meal before he died.’

  ‘That,’ I said flatly, ‘is crazy.’

  ‘Not so. Theory goes they had a fight, which no one in the house would have heard. Too far away. Giovanni panics because he’s stabbed his host, gets him in the car, intending to take him to hospital, changes his mind, hides him, feeds him—’

  ‘Giovanni was in custody,’ I howled down the phone. ‘How could he have fed him?’

  ‘He was released at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon, according to Brandon’s log. What time did he reach you?’

  I thought back. ‘About five-thirty.’

  ‘He had the use of a car?’

  ‘Yes,’ I had to admit. ‘He arrived in Frogs Hill in the hired BMW, courtesy of his agent.’ I did a quick calculation. Twenty minutes at the most from Charing to Frogs Hill, allow time for collecting his gear and finding the car, possibly having to wait a while for it … I froze. There might still be an hour or so free.

  ‘Finds Hugh Compton where he left him. Compton has died. Panic. Drives him to that pond. Tips him in. Ticks all the boxes, Jack.’

  ‘Except the glaringly obvious,’ I retorted. ‘If Giovanni was guilty he’d leave the body right where he had hidden it, whether that was Challock or anywhere else. He wouldn’t risk moving it.’

  ‘People do crazy things when they’re scared. Blood in the car. Blood on Giovanni and no doubt it was Compton’s. You can’t get round that and nor can Brandon.’

  I noted the ‘nor can Brandon’. Did that imply Brandon himself might want to get round it because he was beginning to have doubts, as I had suspected? That might account for his unusually cooperative attitude towards me. ‘The forensic boys would demolish that theory. Can’t they be more precise on how old the stab wounds are?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Water complicates things. And it doesn’t get round the blood evidence.’

  He was right. I could find no explanation for that. I fantasized that Hugh had been wounded slightly by Giovanni, then someone took advantage of the situation and finished him off. No, that wouldn’t work. The ‘somebody’ wouldn’t have taken the body anywhere, but left it right where it was.

  Or did Giovanni have an accomplice? I wondered. Remembering Giovanni’s ‘joke’ and excluding myself and Len, this unwelcome thought had to be considered. The sheer impracticality of it, however, made me dismiss it. How would Giovanni arrange to have an accomplice when he had only just arrived in the country and was a stranger to the Compton family. Maria? No way. His agent? No way again.

  I had returned home bruised in body and mind, both of which had taken unexpected blows. By the time Louise returned, however, the bruising had improved considerably. Physically anyway. When I cautiously enquired after her day, she told me it had been bad, but redeemed by the news of a role she had always wanted to play, although it meant she would be away in the autumn … This was for real, I could tell that, so was within the rules of our arrangement. How could I object – provided she came back?

  ‘You look as if you’ve had a rough day too,’ she said as we adjourned to the garden for the last of the sunshine, and she saw me limping to the bench to rest my battered body.

  ‘People have been playing rough with me.’ I explained what had happened and Dave’s information.

  She fussed over me in a most satisfactory manner and finally returned to what Dave had told me. ‘I really can’t see Giovanni either as a murderer or as a master planner – it’s far more likely he just wandered into something that someone else had planned.’

  ‘If someone else planned the murder, though, it would be very unlikely that Giovanni just walked into it. It’s not as if this drama had happened during the day when other people than the family might be around the barn. Nor can I believe a stray murderer would be hovering outside it at that time of night on the off chance that Hugh Compton would stroll out of the house to visit the barn and that he would have a handy companion who could be blamed for Hugh’s murder.’

  ‘What you’re saying,’ Louise pointed out, ‘is that if Giovanni is innocent the family must be involved.’

  I looked at her blankly. ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘But if anyone in the family – or the whole family together – planned to murder Hugh and to put the blame on someone else, whether Giovanni or not, why not kill Hugh outright at the barn, rather than leave him alive and wounded for some days before killing him? Fairly sadistic.’

  ‘Damn,’ I said. ‘You’re right. Would you like to take over this case from me?’

  ‘No thanks. Maybe it was fake blood,’ she added after a moment or two. ‘We use it all the time on stage.’

  ‘It had Hugh’s DNA in it.’ The evidence against Giovanni was beginning to look too strong, even to me.

  Nevertheless I fastened on what she had said about fake blood. As a result, my brain produced one of those ideas that pop out of their own accord without going through the usual deselection process.

  ‘Maybe it was a fake murder?’

  EIGHT

  Fake murder? What on earth did I mean by that? Was there such a thing in real life? I had a vague memory of a Golden Age mystery with a suicide faked to look like murder, but it hardly fitted this situation. Louise was gazing at me as though I’d arrived from another planet, and I could understand why.

  ‘Explain, O great detective,’ she suggested.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You must have had something in mind or the words wouldn’t have come out.’

  Perhaps she was right, so I thought my way carefully through the maze. ‘I suppose that night in the barn seemed stagey from the way Giovanni described it – the silent dinner party and then Hugh’s insistence on accompanying him to the barn afterwards. True, he was Giovanni’s host, but …’ Yes, this was what had been nagging at me … ‘Hugh wasn’t that crazy about the Alfa Romeo, and he’d already been to the barn that afternoon to show it to Giovanni.’

  This was a very tentative peg on which to hang a theory, but I began to warm up to it. ‘This idea that Hugh had been badly wounded and died of wounds days later – I can’t believe Giovanni would leave a badly wounded man untended. Granted he was in jail for two days, but most of the human race would have done something to indicate a wounded man’s whereabouts.’

  ‘He said he’d been drugged,’ she pointed out, ‘and couldn’t remember what had happened in the barn so he might not know where Hugh was.’

  I wasn’t to be thrown off so lightly. ‘That would mean Giovanni is innocent and that means someone else knew what had happened, left Hugh for two days or so, then killed him, threw him in the water and—’

  Louise regarded me with pity as she interrupted me. ‘Jack, if I were asked to play that scenario on stage, I’d refuse. I know when I see a flop heading my way. I’d be booed off stage and r
ightly so.’

  ‘Thank you, my darling. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Nothing, my sweetheart. I’m only a player on stage, I don’t scribble Macbeths in my spare time. Over to you.’

  I instantly thought of Macbeth’s three witches, which brought me uncomfortably back to Nan and his possibly black arts. I’d only seen his white arts side, because that was what he would have wanted me to see. No, this was the wrong turning. Once off the track and I would miss something vital – which could be this notion of a fake murder.

  I took another shot. ‘OK. Suppose Giovanni was framed with this fake murder. Somebody, knowing where Hugh was and therefore safe in the knowledge that Giovanni had been fitted up, killed Hugh several days later and put the body in the pond right away.’

  ‘Much better,’ Louise said approvingly. ‘That I could play. It could run and run. Except that—’

  ‘Giovanni was free again by then,’ I said, my spirits sinking faster than a rowing boat with a hole in it.

  ‘Bullseye. Take your magnifying glass, Sherlock, and see what Giovanni has in the way of an alibi for the Sunday. I hope it’s good.’ Bullseye for Louise too. Straight to the weak point.

  ‘He can’t have been in bed with Maria …’ Sherlock began.

  ‘Not all day unless she was very lucky. Where is she now, by the way?’

  ‘No idea. She must have gone back to Pluckley with Len. Anyway,’ I continued doggedly, ‘she didn’t arrive here until Monday and then she would have stuck to him like glue. So Sunday is probably the vital day. Giovanni’s clear for most of Saturday as he was still in the loving arms of the police. There could have been a free hour, when theoretically he could have made a detour to deal with Hugh’s dead body, but Sunday is mostly unaccounted for.’

  ‘What’s his story for that?’

  ‘He went to see a friend near Eynsford.’

  ‘Really?’ She thought for a moment or too. ‘Yes, I think I remember something about Eynsford but I can’t remember what it was.’