Barnes-Wakefield sipped his coffee. ‘You won’t want to hear me say this of a member of your family, but I thought then, and I think now, we had enough evidence to support the case. The jury thought otherwise. I was disappointed we lost it.’
‘Look, sir,’ Toby said frankly. ‘I don’t want to get into a discussion about that. We obviously differ in our opinions as to whether my cousin’s wife was responsible for Miss Kemp’s death. By the way, she thinks it may have been an accident.’
Barnes-Wakefield shook his head slowly. ‘No, it wasn’t an accident. A murder set up to look like an accident, that’s how it looked to me then – and now. We live in a country where we accept a jury’s verdict. But I’ve not changed my mind and I’ve spent quite a long time during my retirement mulling over the Kemp case. No investigating officer likes to lose one.’
There was something frighteningly implacable about this nice old gentleman, thought Meredith. He had made up his mind early in the case that Alison was guilty. He still believed it. His investigation had probably been overshadowed by his determination to charge her. He wouldn’t have wanted to hear any counter-arguments. He didn’t want to hear them now. Thank goodness Alan isn’t like that, she told herself. Whatever the circumstances of the case, Alan always tries to keep an open mind.
‘The person who has been writing to Alison knows about the case,’ said Toby. ‘But it was twenty-five years ago. Do you know if there were ever any books written on it?’
Barnes-Wakefield shook his head. ‘None that I ever heard of. There was a lot in the newspapers at the time.’
‘Especially around here?’ Meredith prompted.
The pale sharp gaze moved to take her in. ‘Oh yes, the local press had a field day.’
‘I understand,’ Toby said, ‘that the housekeeper had rather a lot to say at the time.’
‘You’ll mean the cleaning woman, Mrs Travis?’
For the first time Meredith sensed a slight loss of confidence in Barnes-Wakefield’s voice and demeanour. Her own antennae tingled.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That was the name. Alison felt that she had never liked her.’
‘Travis …’ said Barnes-Wakefield slowly, giving himself time to think, thought Meredith. ‘Yes, I remember her. She had a lot to say and I agree, she didn’t like Alison Harris.’
‘Have you any idea why?’ she asked.
Barnes-Wakefield was definitely avoiding her gaze now. ‘Well, she was fond of the old lady, I think, protective, you’d call it. Miss Harris was a city girl, a bit brash in her ways. Whenever she turned up, it unsettled Miss Kemp. Mrs Travis, she was the old-fashioned type, a local woman.’
Meredith was thinking rapidly. Mrs Travis would have been unlikely to have had any transport other than a pushbike. She must have lived very locally in order to work for Freda Kemp. Aloud, she asked, ‘Did she live in one of those cottages just before you get to the Kemp cottage?’
Now the milky gaze swung round to her. ‘I fancy she did. But we didn’t rely on her testimony, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He turned back to Toby. ‘I wish I could help you. I’m afraid I can’t. I had a long chat on the phone with a chap in your part of the world, a Superintendent Markby, about the case. I answered his questions to the best of my ability and followed it up with an e-mail setting out my reasoning at the time. Briefly, I pretty well told him what I’ve told you. I don’t think you’ll find the answer to Miss Harris’s – Mrs Jenner’s – present troubles down here.’ The milky gaze assessed Toby again. ‘Some people court trouble. When you’ve had as much experience as I’ve had, you’ll find that out. I’m not surprised your cousin’s got herself into another spot of bother.’
‘E-mail?’ Toby sounded surprised.
Barnes-Wakefield looked a little smug. ‘Oh yes, got to keep up with the modern ways of doing things. The computer has been very useful to me. I browse the Internet.’ He put down his mug and stirred in his chair. ‘As far as these letters are concerned, I don’t think there’s anything I can say that’d be of any use to you.’
The implication was clearly that they had reached the end of the interview.
Meredith plunged in. ‘We would like to speak to Mrs Travis.’
‘Would you now? I wonder where you think that would get you. You’ll have a job finding her. I doubt she’ll live in the same place. You’ll have to knock on doors, like the police do. Old-fashioned investigating.’ He smiled at them but the faded brownish eyes weren’t amused.
‘Whew!’ said Toby when they had left. ‘What did you make of that? Alison never had a chance.’
‘No, and the worst of it is, he never had anything but the best of intentions. He wanted to find the killer of Miss Kemp. He thought he had found her.’
‘He didn’t like losing the case, that’s for sure!’ Toby drummed his fingers on the car dashboard. ‘Do you think he might have written the letters, Merry?’
‘Barnes-Wakefield?’ she exclaimed, startled.
‘Why not? Nice old fellow, pottering in his greenhouse, a widower and all the rest of it but, underneath it, a vindictive old guy, I bet you! Losing his wife might have made him bitter, too. He’s got nothing to think about, by his own admission, but his garden. Also by his own admission, he’s spent a lot of his retirement mulling over the Kemp case. Let’s say he feels that justice wasn’t done. He’s got a computer. He knows not to make the kind of mistakes which will set the police on his trail. He feels safe. So he starts writing to Alison to let her know the whole thing’s not forgotten and not everyone was prepared to accept the Not Guilty verdict!’
‘The letters were postmarked Oxford,’ she objected.
‘He gives them to someone to post for him. The person doing it may be quite innocent. Barnes-Wakefield has made some excuse. It could be some former police subordinate of his. The chief inspector says do it, and the guy still does it. No questions asked.’
‘How would Barnes-Wakefield have found Alison? And you’re forgetting Fiona.You’re not suggesting he would have killed Fiona as part of his vendetta?’
Toby’s enthusiasm subsided. ‘No. But perhaps we’re being misled by this business of Fiona being found in the lake. Perhaps the letters and Fiona’s death aren’t connected.’
‘He’s right in one thing,’ Meredith observed. ‘We’ve got to knock on a few doors. I have this gut feeling that Mrs Travis has the answers. Barnes-Wakefield was definitely uneasy when we started to talk about her. I believe he was influenced by her testimony and now he’s aware that it may have been flawed. He’s been pushing the thought away but it niggles at him.’
That afternoon, having decided on a new approach, they knocked on the doors of the other cottages in the vicinity of the Kemp cottage.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ Toby began. ‘I used to come down to this part of the world for holidays when I was young and I’m trying to find a family named Travis who lived here then …’
The first cottage belonged to a couple originally from Bristol who had retired there. They had been there four years.
Sorry to bother you, I used to come down …
The second cottage belonged to people who only used it at holiday time and were down for Easter.
Sorry to bother you, I used to come down …
The third cottage belonged to a retired clergyman, a small white-haired sparrow of a man who listened carefully to Toby’s request.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ said the Reverend Simmons, when Toby fell silent. ‘Normally I’d suggest you went and asked the local vicar. He might know of people who would know, if you understand me. But I know the local man has only been in the parish six months.’
‘That’s a pity,’ Toby said despondently. ‘It was a good idea.’
Mr Simmons brightened. ‘I’ll ask my wife. When I’m stuck, I always ask her. She generally thinks of something. Come in.’
In the Simmonses’ comfortable chintz-furnished sitting room they found Mrs Simmons.
‘I won’t g
et up,’ she said as they were introduced. ‘My arthritis won’t allow it. But do sit down and Piers will make tea.’
Toby and Meredith exchanged slightly guilty glances.
‘Can I tell you the whole story?’ asked Toby suddenly. ‘It’s quite true that I used to come down here for my holidays and it’s true I want to find a Mrs Travis. But there’s a bit more to it than that.’
The Simmonses, husband and wife, had probably dealt with this kind of request time without number. Mrs Simmons beamed kindly at them. Mr Simmons invited, ‘Fire away!’
Between them, and over tea and fruit cake,Toby and Meredith explained about Alison, Freda Kemp, the letters and eventually Fiona’s death. At the end of it all, their hosts looked serious.
‘What do you think, Phyllis?’ enquired Mr Simmons of his wife.
‘Well,’ she said slowly.‘I was thinking of Eileen Hammond.You did say this Mrs Travis had a child?’
Mr Simmons turned proudly to his visitors. ‘There! I said we should ask my wife. She always comes up with something. Eileen Hammond, the very person.’
‘Who … ?’ ventured Toby.
Mr Simmons raised a blue-veined hand. ‘Ah! Yes. Miss Hammond was for many years the headmistress of the local primary school. The school, sadly, no longer exists. But we’ve become acquainted with Eileen through attendance at the same church. If Mrs Travis had a son, then he may well have been Eileen’s pupil and, if he was, she’ll remember him!’
‘Eileen never married,’ explained Mrs Simmons. ‘Her pupils were her family.’
‘I’ll phone her,’ said her husband. ‘Right away.’
Eileen Hammond lived in a neat bungalow very like that belonging to ex-Chief Inspector Barnes- Wakefield, except that it didn’t have a pond or any gnomes.
‘Thank goodness!’ said Toby.
Miss Hammond was a spare, angular woman with white hair tucked into an untidy bun. She was also apparently a tapestry fanatic. An unfinished piece of work lay on a chair and around the walls of her sitting room were several framed examples, chiefly floral in subject.They accepted more tea and more fruit cake and, when these formalities were over, they were allowed to explain what had brought them. Miss Hammond listened attentively with her head tilted to one side, her eyes fixed on the speaker’s face. This might simply have been a habit gained as a schoolteacher but Meredith suspected it might be because their hostess was slightly deaf.
‘Edmund Travis,’ Eileen Hammond said when they had finished. She hadn’t spoken at once but sat, sifting through her memories as she might a card index. When she found what she wanted, she gave a little nod of satisfaction. The filing system had worked. ‘The little boy’s name was Edmund and I remember the family very well. They weren’t a problem family in the sense of being in any trouble. There was never anything like that. But the father had left home and the mother had to work very hard to support herself and her son. This is a country area and was even more so, back then. Attitudes change slowly. The fact that Mr Travis had done a bunk—’
Meredith started, slightly surprised to hear this slang expression coming from precise Miss Hammond.
Miss Hammond noticed and smiled. ‘That’s what the local people called it. It was a sort of scandal in those days, believe it or not. A Victorian attitude still persisted that a deserted woman wasn’t quite respectable. People were embarrassed to be around her. They felt they ought to do something but they didn’t know what, and they didn’t want ‘wrong ways’ rubbing off on their own families. They didn’t want the problem transferred, like an illness that was catching.Yet Mrs Travis was the epitome of respectability. She had to be, because of her deserted status. It was a struggle for her although, because they were a low-income family, Edmund got free school lunches. He used to ride to school on a terrible rusty bike I believe he found in a skip.’
‘Alison remembers him as being sullen,’ Toby remarked.
Miss Hammond disapproved of this word and said firmly, ‘He was always polite. He never misbehaved in class. He paid attention. He wasn’t clever but he worked hard and achieved average results. His best subject was art. His mother was devoted to him so, although his father had abandoned them both, there wasn’t any lack of love at home.’
‘What about his mother?’ asked Meredith. ‘What else do you remember about her?’
Miss Hammond shook her head. ‘Not a great deal. I knew her less well than the child. The child, you see, was my province.’ Eileen smiled at them. ‘As I told you, the mother was a hard-working, very respectable woman, a little old-fashioned in her ways. She was a countrywoman and older than some of the other mothers of children at the school. I think Edmund had come along late in life. She had no time for fads and fancies.’
‘And what happened to the boy and his mother, do you know?’ Meredith held her breath and was aware that Toby, beside her, was leaning forwards intently.
Eileen shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know. The mother remarried. She moved away with her new husband — I don’t recall his name – and took the child with her. I lost touch at that point.’
‘Remarried?’ Toby exclaimed tactlessly. ‘She sounded a bit of a gorgon from all Alison said!’
‘A little dour,’ Miss Hammond corrected him. ‘But not a gorgon. I believe she married an older man. I can’t even say that for certain. It’s an impression I got. Anyhow, they left.’
There was a silence. Meredith asked, ‘Do you remember the Kemp case?’
Eileen raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed I do. I knew Miss Kemp slightly. A very nice woman and, I think, a lonely one. She was devoted to her niece.’
‘And do you think her niece killed her?’ Toby asked bluntly.
Miss Hammond shook her head again. ‘I really have no idea. I hope not, because Freda loved the girl. Anything could have happened. It was a very strange affair.’
‘Mrs Travis was Miss Kemp’s charwoman.’
This observation by Meredith gained her a severe look from Miss Hammond. ‘So I believe. She was, I know, very distressed at Miss Kemp’s death. She made some rather wild statements about it all, accusing the niece. The police listened to her perhaps a little too attentively. My personal opinion, and I say this to you in confidence, was that Mrs Travis wasn’t altogether sane on the subject. She’d had so many misfortunes and with Miss Kemp’s death she lost a job she needed. It was one more blow, one too many.’
‘Was Edmund happy at the idea of his mother being remarried?’ Meredith asked.
‘Oh, yes, I’m sure he was. The family’s financial position improved. He got a new bicycle.’ Miss Hammond glanced at a carriage clock on the mantel shelf. It was time for them to go.
‘That’s it, then,’ said Toby when they left Eileen Hammond’s home. ‘I don’t think we can get any further.’
‘We can try the pub again tonight.’
But the pub proved no more a source of information that evening than it had done the previous lunchtime. The retired couple from Bristol called by for a modest tipple, greeted Meredith and Toby with polite smiles, and left early. The garage man, Melhuish, leaned on the bar all evening and was still there when Toby and Meredith left. He nodded to them but did not appear to want to get into any conversation with anyone. Everyone else there was a visitor, down for Easter.
The following morning, Meredith droveToby back to Bamford.
‘We’ve not achieved much,’ sighed Toby. ‘Unless you count digging out Barnes-Wakefield, and it turns out Alan had already been in touch with him. Just following behind Alan isn’t what I came to Cornwall to do. I wanted to find out something new!’
‘I think we’ve achieved quite a lot,’ Meredith argued. ‘At least you know now how Alison came to be suspected and accused. Between Mrs Travis and Barnes-Wakeneld she had no chance!’
‘But did he write the letters?’ Toby wasn’t giving up his theory.
‘I don’t know,’ Meredith mused. ‘I think he’d be capable of it, but that doesn’t mean he did do it. And he had no mo
tive to kill Fiona.’
‘Poor Fi,’ said Toby. ‘Her death put the whole business in a different league, didn’t it?’
The previous evening, about the time Toby and Meredith left Eileen Hammond, Alan Markby was walking through Bamford. He was thinking about Meredith and, coincidentally, thinking about Barnes-Wakefield. In fact, the two subjects were not unconnected in his mind at the time. He missed Meredith. She’d only gone down to Cornwall for a couple of days, but heck, he still missed her. He understood something of the loneliness Barnes-Wakefield must feel since his wife’s death. Markby’s own first marriage had finished in divorce. At the time it had seemed a relief to get the arguments and acrimony behind him. But later, in a strange way, he’d missed Rachel. Rather, he’d missed going home at the end of the day and finding someone there. Even if it had been someone complaining he was late again and the dinner ruined. He’d missed going to bed with someone else and disliked waking to an empty room. He disliked sitting alone before a television set with no one to complain to about the direness of the programmes. At social functions he became again the single man he had been at twenty. When you’re twenty, that’s fine. Life is full of opportunity for the unattached male. In one’s thirties a slight unease sets in as all about you pair off. At forty comes the need to explain one’s unattached status. Old age alone begins to appear frightening. It was something Toby was envisaging and it had led him to the crazy plan of proposing marriage to Fiona. Fortunately, he hadn’t done it.
‘Or,’ murmured Markby, ‘he says he didn’t. But did he? And was it so crazy? She was a rich young woman.’
Don’t talk to yourself, he admonished himself. Not a good sign and, in a copper, positively dangerous.
Markby’s own isolation had ended when Meredith entered his life. He still felt a kind of surprised gratitude that life should have been generous enough to give him a second chance. And he missed her. He wanted her here, not roaming around Cornwall with Toby Smythe.
Ann Granger Page 22
