“Why did your mother bring you and you brother to Winstead without your father?”
Tigue smiled again, but without the ease he’d shown earlier. “Because my father was dead, Chief Inspector. He was killed in 1917, at Arras.”
“I see,” Lamb said. He sat back in his chair. “As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, a murder occurred in Winstead before we found the bones at the farm. The victim’s name was Ruth Aisquith, and she was shot to death—shot in the back—in the cemetery next to the church. Did you know her?”
“I’m afraid not, no.”
“Did your brother know her?”
“Not that I am aware.”
“Were you aware that your brother’s wife has gone to her sister’s in Chesterfield for the duration of the war?”
“Is that what he told you, then?”
“That’s what he’s told his neighbors.”
“Well, I suppose he had to say something, didn’t he?” Tigue stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and pulled another from the case, but this time did not offer one to Lamb. He lit it and took a pull. “You see, the truth of the matter is that my brother’s wife has left him for another man—a motor car salesman, of all people. I’m not even sure how Alba met the fellow. But my brother’s marriage never was very robust. I think Alba married Lawrence because she believed he had prospects. Then he left London and dragged her back to Winstead. Alba is a London girl, you see. She never fancied Winstead. And as much as I hate to say it, I don’t think Lawrence ever measured up much as a husband. He always was a bit watery in that way.” He shrugged. “Alba had had enough, and so she left. I can’t say I blame her, really.”
Lamb was not surprised to hear—if indeed the tale was true—that Lawrence Tigue’s wife had left him and that Tigue had made up a story to cover his humiliation. But Algernon Tigue’s apparent disdain for his brother—his seeming utter lack of compassion for his brother’s wrecked marriage—did surprise him, and he found it telling.
“You sound as if you don’t like your brother much, sir.”
“Well, I suppose one’s passions and opinions always are most intense when it comes to blood relations.”
“I’m afraid, too, that the body of a tramp was found dead in the wood by Saint Michael’s Church yesterday,” Lamb said. “Although I haven’t publicly released the man’s identity, I’m certain that the man was Albert Clemmons.”
Again, Lamb wanted to see Algernon’s reaction to the bald stating of a fact that might cause him to react emotionally.
But Tigue expressed nothing that Lamb would have called surprise or shock at the news. He exhaled smoke. “I hadn’t heard that a tramp had died,” he said. “As for whether or not the man was Albert, I’m willing to believe anything. Given what happened to Albert he might very well have become a tramp. He drank a bit when I knew him, after all. That’s something that never came out about Albert, by the way—that besides being a pedophile, he drank. My mother frequently had to rouse him out of bed in the morning to get him to do his chores around the farm. A less patient person would have gotten rid of a man like Clemmons, but my mother wasn’t like that.”
“Does it surprise you that Albert Clemmons had returned to Winstead?”
“Not really.” He shrugged.
Lamb waited for Algernon to ask how Clemmons died. When he didn’t, Lamb said, “He was poisoned.”
Again, Algernon managed to keep his emotions concealed. Lamb could not ascertain if Algernon cared one way or the other about Clemmons’s death or the manner in which it had occurred. “Suicide, was it then?” Algernon asked.
“I haven’t determined that yet.”
Lamb was not prepared yet to tell Algernon that Clemmons had confessed to killing the O’Hares. He remained partially unconvinced that Clemmons had written the note. Lamb moved a bit closer to the table to ask his next question. Again, he was fairly certain what Algernon’s response would be and asked only in an effort to crack Algernon’s armor.
“Do you think it’s possible that someone might have poisoned him because they knew that all the digging out at the farm was bound to turn up the child’s remains and that Clemmons knew something about it—perhaps knew the identity of the child and the truth behind its death—and therefore had to be silenced? Because you see, sir, I’m of the mind that the child’s body was not placed there since the farm was abandoned, as you suggest. I’m of the opinion that the body was buried there while you and your mother and brother were living in the house, and during that time when Albert Clemmons worked on the farm.”
Again, Algernon merely shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. As for your opinion and intuitions, I can only repeat what I told you earlier, Chief Inspector—that neither I nor my brother had anything to do with, or possess any knowledge of, the death of the unfortunate child you’ve uncovered in the house. My mother knew nothing of it, either.”
Lamb reached into his pocket and withdrew the figure of General Grant. As he held it up for Tigue to see, he saw genuine surprise flare in Tigue’s eyes and noticed him glance quickly at his desk, which was behind Lamb, where the Napoleon figure stood guard.
“Do you recognize this, sir?” Lamb asked. “You seem to.”
Tigue shrugged yet again. Lamb could almost sense Algernon calculating how to react. “Should I recognize it?”
“I don’t know,” Lamb said. “I just thought you might.”
Tigue’s smile now returned—though this time his eyes held a hint of malice that he couldn’t entirely camouflage. “And why would you think that, Chief Inspector?”
“I found the figure among Albert Clemmons’s meager possessions,” Lamb said casually. “I noticed that you have a very similar figure of Napoleon on your desk.” Lamb turned to glance at the figure, then back at Tigue. “In fact, I’m quite sure that they come from a set manufactured years ago by Britain’s—a set of famous generals.”
Lamb’s producing the figure indeed seemed to have caught Algernon Tigue’s attention. In fact, the appearance of the Grant figure caused Algernon to recognize, very suddenly and irrevocably, that his plodding, cautious brother, Lawrence, whom he had always believed lacked backbone and cunning, seemed to have outwitted him. He willed himself to relax and decided that his best—perhaps his only—option was to strike back at Lawrence.
“You’re right about the Napoleon, of course,” Algernon said after a pause. “It might very well have come from a matched set.” He paused as if thinking on the subject, then added, “Lawrence gave me that figurine years ago. As a boy, I was rather smitten with Napoleon; he was one of my heroes, I suppose you’d say. Lawrence gave me that as a kind of token or memento. But as I said that was years ago. As a matter of fact, Lawrence owned a set of figures very much like those you mentioned—famous generals, as you said. He rather fancied toy soldiers.”
Lamb returned the Grant figure to his coat pocket and stood. “Well, thank you for the tea, Mr. Tigue,” he said and got to his feet. He was finished with Algernon Tigue, but only for the moment.
Tigue also stood but did not offer Lamb his hand. “You’re welcome,” he said.
“I’m going to ask that you not leave the area in the next few days,” Lamb said.
Algernon smiled. “Is that an order, Chief Inspector?”
“It’s a request.”
“Well, I think I can agree to do so, then.”
As Lamb limped back to Vera and the Wolseley, he found himself pondering his situation. He had begun to play with a notion about the significance of the toy soldiers and their possible origin, based on something Ned Horton had said—“every boy owns toy soldiers.” And yet, despite all that had occurred in the past twenty-four hours, he’d collected little real, usable evidence to aid in his inquiries. He was chugging along mostly on gut instinct and prior experience—his long knowledge of how the guilty acted and reacted, how they endeavored to maintain control over an unraveling situation, and the ways in which they sought to cover their tracks.
In and aroun
d Winstead, long-buried secrets were coming to the surface, and those who had guarded those secrets already had begun to act. He possessed pieces of a puzzle that he was becoming more and more certain were related. But he needed more—perhaps much more—before he could connect those pieces.
TWENTY-ONE
LAMB NOW WENT FROM ONE TIGUE BROTHER TO THE OTHER. VERA stopped the car near Lawrence Tigue’s cottage on the east end of Winstead. Lamb had made no appointment with Lawrence and hoped to surprise him. He knocked upon Tigue’s red front door.
Tigue came to the front window, surreptitiously parted the curtain, and saw Lamb standing on the threshold. He was now close to finishing his preparations and could afford to answer the questions he was certain Lamb would ask him. Very soon the answers—whether true or not—would cease to matter, in any case. He opened the door with a smile. “Chief Inspector,” he said.
“Hello, Mr. Tigue. I wonder if you’ve a few minutes to talk?”
“Of course, of course.” Tigue stepped back from the door to allow Lamb in. “I was just finishing lunch.”
Lamb stepped into the foyer and removed his hat. Tigue led Lamb into the sitting room and bade him to sit on the couch. Tigue took a seat in a chair facing Lamb.
“Well, then, how can I help you, Chief Inspector?” he said. “I’m half hoping you’ve come to tell me that you’ve cleared my Webley in the killing of that unfortunate woman.”
“No,” Lamb said. “We’re still waiting on Scotland Yard for that.”
Tigue smiled. “I see. Yes, of course. These things take time—they must, of course.”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Tigue, an extraordinary chain of events has occurred in and near the village in the past couple of days, and I was hoping that you could help me sort them out, particularly as you have some connection to at least one of those events,” Lamb said.
“Yes, of course. You’re going to want to ask me about the discovery of the skull out at the farm, and Albert Clemmons’s death.”
Lamb found himself unsurprised by the fact that Lawrence Tigue had known that the tramp who had been living in Miss Wheatley’s wood had been Albert Clemmons. If Miss Wheatley had recognized Clemmons, despite the man’s changed appearance, then it stood to reason that Lawrence Tigue, who had known Clemmons better, also might have recognized the old farmhand. He was surprised, though, that Lawrence readily admitted that he’d known Clemmons’s identity.
“You knew, then, that the tramp who lived in Miss Wheatley’s wood was Albert Clemmons?” Lamb said.
“Oh, no—well, not at first, at least. I’d seen the man around the village, of course, peeking in dustbins and the like, but didn’t recognize him. And he never approached or identified himself to me, though I’m not sure why. I would have helped him if he’d needed it. Perhaps he was too proud—ashamed of how low he had fallen.”
“How did you know, then, that the man was Clemmons? I’ve not released that information.”
Tigue laughed—a kind of yelp. “Oh, well, that’s easy enough,” he said. “I’m afraid the wrong person found his body, as far as keeping things on the QT is concerned, Chief Inspector. Flora Wheatley. She’s incapable of keeping a secret or even a tidbit of gossip to herself. The woman’s extraordinary, really—absolutely full to the brim with schadenfreude. She delights in other people’s troubles and travails. I’m sorry if my knowing surprised you, but I’m afraid that was to be expected. One simply can’t trust Flora Wheatley to keep her trap shut. The fact that the tramp was Albert Clemmons is pretty much general knowledge in the village by now, I’m afraid. How did Albert die, by the way, if I’m not out of line in asking?”
“We’re still awaiting the results of the autopsy.”
“Yes, I see, of course.”
The fact that Miss Wheatley might have put it about the village that the tramp was Clemmons concerned Lamb, though he could do little about it for the moment.
“How do you explain a child’s skull coming to earth in the basement of the farmhouse in which you lived for so many years?” he asked Tigue, pressing on. He intended to pressure Lawrence in the same way in which he had Algernon, hoping, perhaps, that Lawrence proved an easier nut to crack. Given his status as chairman of the Winstead parish council, Lawrence had more obvious reason to seem cooperative.
Lawrence leaned back a bit in his chair and crossed his legs. “Well, I can’t, I’m afraid.”
“Do you think the skull belongs to one of the O’Hare twins?”
“I would hope not, certainly. At the time, everyone pretty much concluded that Sean O’Hare had taken them to Ireland. Unless I’m mistaken, no one in Winstead has seen Sean or the twins since.” Lawrence moved a bit forward in his chair. “Are you saying, Chief Inspector, that you’ve identified the skeleton as belonging to one of the O’Hares?”
“No,” Lamb said. “We haven’t identified the remains yet and might not for some time. I’m merely interested in your thoughts on the matter. As I told your brother this morning, I’m of a mind that the body was not placed there in the past ten or so years, during the time when the farm was abandoned, but was put there during the time that you and your brother and mother lived in the house and Albert Clemmons was your farmhand. Which, of course, very much puts you and your family in the picture, Mr. Tigue.”
Lamb wanted Lawrence to know that he’d spoken to Algernon. He’d sensed by the manner in which Algernon had spoken of Lawrence’s failed marriage that the brothers held each other in low regard—it was clear that Algernon, at any rate, possessed little respect for Lawrence.
“You spoke to Algernon, then?”
“Yes.”
“And what was his opinion on the matter?”
“I’m here to get your opinion, sir,” Lamb said.
Lamb’s mention of Algernon brought back to Lawrence memories of the humiliations he had suffered at his brother’s hands. But he reminded himself anew that he had righted those wrongs—that Algernon had underestimated him, and that he had nothing more to fear from Algernon. He had fixed matters so that Algernon could not gain the upper hand. He wondered if Lamb had inadvertently revealed this fact to Algernon through his questioning. If so, it was too late for Algernon to counter the move. He was certain of that.
“Well, I don’t know what to say, really, Chief Inspector,” Lawrence said. “I suppose you’re right that Algernon and myself are very much in the picture, as you put it—that is if your theory about when the body was placed there is correct, which I doubt it is. I can only give you my word that, however that body came to be buried in the basement of the farmhouse, we had nothing to do with it.”
“Did you see the O’Hare boys on the farm on the day they disappeared?”
“No. I was off hunting rabbits in an entirely different part of the farm. I bagged three that morning, as a matter of fact.”
“And your mother and brother, sir? Where were they?”
“Well, Algernon was off somewhere playing with his mates, as I recall. Wasn’t even on the farm. And my mother was busy around the house. She didn’t see the boys that morning.”
“Did your mother know when she hired Albert Clemmons that he had a conviction for pedophilia?”
“No. The news shocked us.”
Lamb glanced around the room. “You seem to have done quite well for yourself, sir,” he said.
Tigue smiled. “Yes. I try, at any rate.”
“How long have you lived in the village?”
“Eight years. I lived on the farm with my mother until 1932, the year she died. I then went to London—to seek my fortune, I suppose you’d say. That’s where I learned the printing trade and met the woman who became my wife.”
“What brought you back to Winstead?”
“Well, I didn’t like London—hated it, actually.”
“And you now operate a freelance printing business out of your garage?”
“Yes.”
“What sorts of things do you print?”
“Well, I
print the village newsletter for one, though I don’t charge for that. I also do a lot of government work, informational fliers and the like. There’s a lot of that these days, as you know. ‘What to do if the Germans invade.’ That sort of thing.” He smiled again. “You seem to know quite a lot about me, Chief Inspector. Not that I mind, of course. It’s your job to know these things; I realize that.”
“Yes, it is my job.”
“Well, just in case you don’t know, I also raise chickens and make a bit of money from selling eggs to the people who are developing the farm—though my eggs have gone missing recently. I’d say that’s a case for you, but I’d be wasting your time, given that I already know the culprit.”
“Who is it, sir?”
“Flora Wheatley, of course. The woman hates me, Chief Inspector, as I’m sure she must have told you by now. She is obsessed with the local songbird population and is convinced that I’ve been stealing eggs from their nests and selling them with my chicken eggs. It’s preposterous, of course, but there it is. I daresay she’s already told you the whole sordid story of my supposed guilt.”
“Have you seen Miss Wheatley steal your eggs, sir?”
“No, but I’m sure it’s her. It couldn’t be anyone else. And her cottage is just across the meadow behind us here.”
“To whom do you deliver the eggs at the camp?”
“A man named Taney seems to be in charge over there. At times I’ve dealt with him, though, really, it’s whoever happens to be handy about the mess tent when I arrive.”
“Did you ever deliver the eggs to Ruth Aisquith, then? She worked in the mess tent.”
“No. As I told you before, I didn’t know her.”
“I understand that your wife has left Winstead to live with her sister in Chesterfield for the duration of the war,” Lamb said.
The Wages of Desire Page 16
