‘Would you consider you and your wife to be close?’ Clare said.
‘As close as any married couple after so many years together. We used to argue when our son was alive, more often than not over him, but nowadays the arguments are rare. Most of the time it’s long periods of silent, sullen glances at each other, but she had got this idea about Gloria and me.’
‘She accused you of murdering the woman.’
‘Don’t listen to her. She has these ideas, and then she spends hours on her own in the house just looking into space, sobbing and then laughing out loud. They wanted me to put her in care at one stage while they counselled her through her grief. The idea appealed, and I thought she’d go at one stage, but then she decided against it. Not that anyone could force her and she wasn’t a threat to society.’
‘She is now.’
‘Then maybe some good will come of it. If time in an institution is what is necessary then we’ll be all the better for it.’
‘Did your wife kill anyone?’ Tremayne asked. He could see the man wilting, his eyes close to shutting.
‘No.’
‘And what about you? If it’s true about your affair with Gloria, and we’ll be checking, then you could have killed her. And we’ve now got your wife, a proven knife attacker. Bert Blatchford was killed with a knife. Why?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In your incestuous community, what else is there that we don’t know? Did Bert Blatchford have some hold over you and your wife? We always assumed that Barry Woodcock and Rupert Baxter were the most likely guilty parties, but now we have a vicar for one of the murders. Gladys could have killed Bert, you could have killed the others.’
‘I could have, so could my wife, but we didn’t.’
After the husband, the wife to interview. Gladys Upminster was brought into the interview room at Bemerton Road Police Station, a lawyer of her acquaintance attending for her, and the inevitable questions, the inconclusive answers.
‘At your house, before we found your husband collapsed on the ground, you were willing to condemn him as a murderer and an adulterer, but now your story has changed,’ Tremayne said.
‘It was an unfortunate chain of events. He made me angry, I lashed out. It’s as simple as that.’
‘With a knife? Do you do that often? Resolve your disputes with a display of weaponry? And why did you lunge at Sergeant Yarwood?’
‘She was annoying me,’ Gladys Upminster said. Her lawyer sat to one side, a faraway look on his face. Clare thought that under the circumstances the woman could have chosen someone more dynamic.
‘Your husband will live, no thanks to you,’ Tremayne said.
‘I didn’t want to harm him, not really, but he said some terrible things.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t want to repeat them.’
‘Mrs Upminster, you’ve been charged with attempted murder. Whether that charge is reduced to attempted manslaughter or even results in a non-custodial sentence is up to you.’
‘Very well. I did accuse him of having an affair with Gloria. A woman knows, you must realise that.’
‘But why Gloria?’
‘They were close when they were younger, and he married me on the rebound. We were both twenty back then, and our son was on the way. Shotgun marriage they used to call it, but nowadays they don’t even bother with a ring. We married in the church in Compton. It was before James Baxter’s time there, and the vicar gave us a lecture about the foolishness of youth, and how we had sinned and so on. After a great deal of repenting on our parts, he married us before it showed too much. My parents were aghast, and Eustace’s were none too happy, but the shame of an illegitimate child was too much for any of them to accept. Eustace did his duty, although he wasn’t so sure about me.’
‘But you’ve stayed together for a long time.’
‘We’re like old socks. You get used to each other, and in time, the idea of separation and someone else no longer appeals. But I became cold towards him after our son died, and Eustace is still a man; he needed an outlet, and although I wished he hadn’t, I couldn’t do much about it.’
‘You could have been more willing,’ Clare said.
‘I couldn’t. You wouldn’t understand.’
Clare chose not to mention that she did.
‘Coming back to when you knifed your husband, explain what happened,’ Tremayne said.
‘Eustace came into the house late. I could see what he’d been up to.’
‘A woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Gloria’s dead, so it couldn’t have been her.’
‘It wasn’t, but he’s got a fancy woman somewhere, not in Compton.’
‘Did you accuse him over this woman?’
‘I made some comment, but he called me a dried-up old prune. That’s not like Eustace to say such things, but I suppose this woman of his told him to stand up to me. I saw red, not so difficult with me, as I have a temper that’s easy to inflame.’
‘You answered him back?’
‘I brought up Gloria, and the fact that the two of them had been sleeping together up to her death.’
‘He denied it?’
‘He didn’t say much, just stood there with an inanimate face, as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I struck him in the stomach, not that it hurt him, but he responded and slapped me across the face. I called him a son of a bitch, the devil’s spawn.’
‘And?’
‘He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, accused me of all sorts of things, and how our son would still have been alive if it hadn’t been for my nagging. That’s when I grabbed the knife and tried to attack him.’
‘There was no sign of blood in the house,’ Clare said.
‘Eustace, sensing the situation was bleak, made for the door. By then, my anger knew no limit. I continued after him and found him around the back of the barn. He saw me and attempted to get away, but I’m faster, and I rammed the knife into his back.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘I’m not sure. I hadn’t meant to do it, and I didn’t want him dead. By the time you arrived, I was still angry with Eustace, and I was pleased with what I had done. Now I’ve had time to reflect, and it was all my fault.’
‘A judge could be swayed,’ Tremayne said, ‘but is it the truth?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you have proof of Eustace and Gloria, and why did he kill her? How do you know that he did?’
‘I was wrong, just angry. I know that she still liked him, that’s all. I don’t know who killed Gloria.’
***
Desdemona Foster sat in the front room of her house. Her husband sat on a chair opposite. Neither spoke, except to say the minimum necessary. Hamish Foster could see in his wife’s face the anguish that surged through her.
Hamish knew of her flawed personality, the ease with which she listened to others, allowing them to form her opinions. For the first few years, she’d listened to him, but now she didn’t. Now she needed others with more direct messages, more polarised and controversial.
Gloria Wiggins had been a firebrand and an opinionated woman, and Desdemona had worshipped her, but she was dead. Sheila Blatchford was not of the same calibre, but she held control of Desdemona, and now Margaret Wilmot did, but she was not as severe as the other two.
Desdemona Foster was back where her husband wanted her to be, under his loving care, listening to what he had to say, accepting his wisdom, but he knew it was not enough for her. She was a weak woman, not educated enough or dynamic enough to take control of her own views. Hamish knew that he did not have the mental strength that she wanted. He was a man who accepted a person for themselves, and the revelation about Margaret and Rupert did not concern him, nor the fact that Gladys Upminster had tried to kill Eustace. To him, all the events of the village were just the flotsam of life, and as long as he and Desdemona were not affected, then all was fine with him.
He looked
over at his wife, saw the loveliness in her, the love he felt. No children had blessed their lives, not that Desdemona ever commented on her disappointment, and apart from a dog in the early years of their marriage, it had just been the two of them and the farm.
‘None of it is important,’ Hamish said, knowing full well that his comments would fall on deaf ears.
‘But Margaret and Rupert Baxter. Why would she be with him? She's always such a sensible woman,’ Desdemona replied. The usual decorative clothing had been replaced by a pink dressing gown to keep warm. An electric heater, the type with fake flames, attempted to warm the room, but it was large, the same as the rest of the house. Ideal in summer, but in winter it was impossible to heat. Money was not the issue in the Fosters’ house, but Hamish was a frugal man, not given to waste when it was not needed, and the cold was transitory and could be overcome with appropriate clothing. Desdemona, a slight woman, felt the cold more than her husband, a man who carried more weight than he should.
‘But why concern yourself? I can’t say that I like Margaret very much, but it’s none of our business if she wants to take Rupert as her lover. Look what’s happened over at the Upminsters’. Gladys is with the police, Eustace is in hospital.’
‘I knew about him,’ Desdemona said.
‘Knew what?’
‘That he had another woman. Margaret told me the other day before I found out about her. What a thing to admit to. I’m glad we’re not like that.’
Hamish felt inclined to go over to his wife and give her a hug but did not.
‘How did Margaret know and why did she tell you?’
‘Don’t you realise that there are not many of us left now? Only four or five, and one of us is a murderer.’
‘It’s not us, and I can’t see Margaret killing anyone. I always suspect the Woodcocks, but Barry’s harmless and Gwen’s devoted to her children.’
‘I’m next,’ Desdemona said.
‘Why?’
‘I can sense it.’
‘But why you? You’ve done nothing wrong, never spoken out of turn.’
‘I listened to Gloria and then Sheila. I don’t think I can listen to Margaret anymore, not after what she has done.’
‘Then will you listen to me?’ Hamish said.
‘You only say what I want to hear, not what I need to hear. They were my support, you’re my love. Can’t you accept it that way?’
Hamish Foster knew that as much as he loved his wife, she was a weak and easily led woman. He wondered if others had been coerced to commit acts that were unlawful and violent. He was concerned that his wife could be a murderer, and with the advice of others had rationalised it to be of no importance, whereas a single woman and a single man cohabiting was a punishable sin. He was a worried man.
Chapter 21
Gwyneth Wiggins, the second wife of Cuthbert Wiggins, was a roly-poly woman, as round as she was tall. She was the one person who hadn’t been interviewed so far. Her husband, the person who had rendered Clare unconscious, was on bail on his own surety. He had been cleared of the murder of Stephanie Underwood and was at home with his wife when Tremayne and Clare knocked on the door.
A nondescript terrace house in a nondescript street, it was identifiable by the trimmed hedge at the front, the newly mown lawn. On one side, an unpainted house, a motorcycle in bits on the grass; on the other, an identical house painted an odd shade of grey.
‘They suspended me from the bank pending the trial,’ Wiggins said as he opened the door. Inside, the house was the same as it had been outside: spotless and well-presented. ‘That’s Gwyneth. Tidy house, tidy mind, that’s her motto.’
‘It’s a credit to your wife. Yours must be the best in the street,’ Clare said.
‘Over-capitalised. I should know better as a bank manager, but I indulge my wife, not that she doesn’t deserve it. I hope you’re better. I’m still sorry about what happened.’
‘So am I.’
‘We’d like to speak to your wife,’ Tremayne said.
‘She’s waiting for you. She knows about Gloria and Stephanie and what I did to your sergeant. She’s not happy about it, but she’s forgiven me, and she does understand.’
‘Why you were in Compton?’
‘Oh, yes. We’ve no secrets, that’s how you stay married.’
Regardless of what had occurred, Clare had to admit to a liking for the man.
In the other room, Gwyneth Wiggins had prepared sandwiches and tea. Her husband stayed long enough to take a sandwich.
‘You’ll want to talk to Gwyneth without me, is that correct?’ Cuthbert said as he left by the back door.
Before either Tremayne or Clare could respond, he was on the other side of the door and heading to a garden chair, near enough to be seen, far enough away so that he wouldn’t hear the interview with his wife.
‘Another cup?’ Gwyneth said. She was a hospitable woman who apparently enjoyed having people over.
‘Your children?’
‘They’ll not bother us.’
‘Mrs Wiggins, you’re aware why we're here?’ Tremayne said.
‘My Cuthbert wouldn’t hurt a fly, and what I’ve heard of Gloria, she wasn’t a good woman.’
‘We never met her, not when she was alive,’ Clare said.
‘Cuthbert’s still sorry for what he did to you.’
‘I know, and he’s still answerable for the assault and for leaving a murder scene. What has your husband told you?’
‘He wanted to find Gloria’s will. If she had not changed the original, then he’s entitled to her estate. She mistreated him, and for many years he never looked at another woman. But then I came along, not as fat as you see me now, and he fell for me, I fell for him.’
‘You’re not fat, Mrs Wiggins,’ Clare said.
‘Well-rounded then.’
‘As you say. Why wouldn’t Gloria have changed her will? It’s been many years since they divorced, and she was a fastidious woman.’
‘Cuthbert thought she may have overlooked it. She cleaned him out, and we’ve survived, but not as well as we should.’
‘Your house is a credit to you.’
‘The area’s not. With some of Gloria’s money, it would make a difference. We could probably move somewhere else, but now Cuthbert’s job is on the line. Even if he’s acquitted, or held over for community service or something, his chances of keeping his job are slim, and there’s no chance of promotion. Unfortunately, we’re not in a good place at the present moment. Although we’ve got each other and the children. I suppose we can’t have everything.’
‘Not everything, but Mrs Wiggins, the truth. Have you been to Compton?’
‘We drove through once many years ago. Cuthbert wanted to show me where his money was, although we never saw anyone. Or at least no one of importance, and certainly not Gloria. A couple were walking down the road, but my husband didn’t know who they were, and they took no notice of us.’
‘The cottage where Gloria lived, did you take any notice of it, detailed notice I mean?’
‘It was a quick in and out of the village. I saw the front gate, the roof of the house, but not much else.’
‘It’s unusual for the second wife to see where the first wife lived.’
‘I’m not the jealous type, and Cuthbert wanted me to know in case he wasn’t around.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If Cuthbert had passed on, then I was to keep a look out for any mention of Gloria. He told me about the will, and he had a certified copy. He knew it was a long shot, but anything to make my life better, that was Cuthbert. Always thinking of others, not himself.’
‘Commendable, no doubt,’ Tremayne said scathingly. He had a problem with people who just seemed too good, and Cuthbert Wiggins was being painted as a saint, and his wife, Gwyneth, as the loyal disciple.
‘Mrs Wiggins, the problem we have is that we are short on suspects for the murder of Gloria Wiggins and others,’ Clare said. ‘It’s clear that the ot
her murders don’t appear to have any connection to your husband, but Gloria’s does.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Gloria Wiggins’ premature death is advantageous to you and your husband. Our concern is that he precipitated it.’
‘It may be a godsend, but Cuthbert did not kill her.’
‘No will has been found. It appears that your inheritance is intact.’
‘Cuthbert’s pleased that eventually he’ll receive satisfaction for what she did to him, but we’re not murderers.’
Outside the house, Tremayne lit up a cigarette. Clare looked around the area. ‘Did you believe her?’ she said.
‘She puts on a brave face, but she must hate living with her neighbours. Check out her background, just in case.’
***
Eustace Upminster was discharged from hospital after six days and went to stay with Gladys’s sister in Salisbury. He was anxious to have his wife by his side, but bail had been refused. Her lawyer had put forward an impassioned plea for leniency, as well as her husband’s statement that it was a misunderstanding, which was read out at the hearing. However, Tremayne had been present at the hearing, and said that he regarded her as unpredictable.
In the end, Gladys Upminster was transferred to a minimum-security women’s prison to await a full trial. Eustace Upminster was adamant that she would be back with him as soon as possible.
Events in the village moved forward at their slow and measured pace. The meetings continued at the pub, with Margaret Wilmot holding court; Desdemona Foster did not sit as close as she had before. A palpable air of distrust had settled over the bar, so much so that the next time Tremayne and Clare visited, they could sense it. If it hadn’t been Compton and a murder enquiry, they would have gone somewhere else.
The Reverend Tichborne was also in jail, with his trial due in the next two months. His guilt seemed inevitable; his motive still debatable. Any attempt to obtain the necessary permissions to exhume his wife for further examination had been put on hold.
Hamish Foster sat in the pub, keeping a close watch on his wife. The Fosters, unlike in stature, reminded Tremayne of a nursery rhyme that his mother used to recite:
The DI Tremayne Thriller Box Set Page 130
