‘They wouldn’t compensate me. Me, I like life cut and dried and easy. The kind of life Mark Cheesman had.’
‘He’s had to work damned hard for what he’s got.’
‘Who wouldn’t at something like ten thousand a year? … In his case, things moved right from the beginning. Winchester and Oxford. That’s the kind of education makes certain you start at the top and work upwards.’
‘In these days much more depends on the ability of the person concerned.’
‘Does it? Ask a bloke from the secondary and technical schools how ’e’s making out in competition with the people from the snob schools and listen to his language … Funny thing, life, doesn’t even try to appear to be fair. Look at Cheesman. Wonderful job laid on for him and they tell me not even national service interrupted his work.’
‘He volunteered to do his two years but the medicos wouldn’t pass him.’
‘Ever stopped to think about how healthy the wealthier of the medical rejects look?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Sheer coincidence, of course … He’s been real lucky in most ways. Office boy to partner in a wealthy firm in six easy months.’
‘Ten years of very hard work.’
‘I’ve worked bloody hard for thirty years but I don’t know anything about surtax.’
‘The world’s unfair but that’s not news.’
‘So you agree?’
‘It’s an obvious truth.’
‘Then if you’ve got to be born: be born a Mark Cheesman.’
‘And suffer your wife dying from an accident when she’s still young and beautiful?’
‘Plenty of people with his money keep their wives with ’em to a ripe old age … ’
‘Why are you so concerned about him?’
‘I like to know what I can about the people I’m dealing with.’
‘Why d’you say dealing?’
‘Some of the lab. reports are through. I’ll lay a hundred to one the remainder don’t change the picture.’
‘Is it murder, then?’
He countered my question. ‘Did Mrs Cheesman have a private income?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What would you say he earns?’
‘Never stopped to think about it.’
Pope leaned forward. ‘I know what’s going on in your mind, Mr Waring, and believe me it’s all very natural. You’re concerned with loyalty. On the one ’and are your friends, wealthy, nice, people: on the other are the police. Stands to reason you reckon your loyalty is with your friends. But this is different.’
‘Why?’
He sighed, then, without asking, leaned forward and threw a couple of logs on to the fire. There could be no doubt that he felt thoroughly at home in the cottage. I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or furious.
‘Were him and his wife happy?’ asked Pope.
‘Very.’
‘No rows?’
‘I never heard any and I very much doubt there were any to hear.’
‘How did you come to meet them?’
‘A few years back I dined one night at Gray’s Inn and met Stuart Tetley. We became friendly and when he heard where I lived he introduced me to the Cheesmans.’
‘Gray’s Inn? Didn’t know you were a barrister.’
‘Strictly non-practising after a couple of years taught me that my limitations stretched in all directions.’
‘How did Mr Tetley get on with them?’
‘They were very close friends.’
‘Anything going on between him and the missus?’
‘Good God, no!’
‘Might be shocking, Mr Waring, but it wouldn’t be unusual. One case I had, an exalted duchess made it very clear she preferred her groom to the duke.’
I thought of poor Lindy and how she’d have been so sickened and humiliated by the things that were happening to her memory.
*
Dr Kite, one of the six pathologists in the metropolitan and south-eastern area, removed the rubber gloves he had been wearing. ‘Head’s a mess.’
‘It’s that, sir,’ agreed Detective-Sergeant Ventnor.
‘Makes one realise how terribly fragile the human body is.’
That’s it, thought Ventnor, underline the fact we’ve all got to die. You perishing doctors seem to have the mentalities of undertakers.
‘She might have been hammered over the head with something nice and heavy but we wouldn’t know much about it now.’
‘Would you say she was, sir?’
‘Very much doubt it … One thing of interest is the scratch on the neck here.’ He pointed to the right side of the neck. It was a shallow scratch that started an inch under the ear and finished in the hair. ‘I shouldn’t have said that came from the fall.’
‘Happened before it?’
‘Probably. Might have been self-inflicted, of course, but I doubt it.’
‘I take it it would be an idea to check the finger-nails and rings for blood to see if it was?’
‘Advisable.’
‘Suppose she was standing upright, sir, when this scratch happened. How high above the ground would it be?’
‘Sixty-one inches.’
‘That ties up nicely with the blood drops we found. We gave them between forty and sixty inches.’
‘Precisely where were the drops?’
‘By the broken banisters, but well in from them.’
Doctor Kite rubbed the lobe of his right ear.
*
The members of the press listened with gathering annoyance to what the superintendent had to say.
‘What the hell’s worth quoting out of that lot?’ demanded one.
‘We are making progress.’
‘In which direction?’
‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, gentlemen.’
‘But our papers have to … Off the record: was it the husband? What’s the motive?’
‘We cannot yet say for certain it wasn’t an accident.’
‘That doesn’t sound very good from you. What would you bet it was an accident, eh?’
‘I’ve said all there is to say.’ Pope dropped to the ground the cigarette he had been smoking, ground it into the soft turf. He turned, walked into the house, and a uniformed constable stood ready to prevent anyone’s following him.
‘Pleasant guy — if you like ’em built that way,’ observed one reporter ironically to no one in particular.
Pope walked through into the main part of the hall, knocked on the door of the study, entered. Mark Cheesman sat in one of the armchairs and stared at the fire. By his feet were Apples and Pears. He was drinking a whisky and soda.
‘Sorry to bother you again, sir,’ said the superintendent.
‘Don’t apologise. I’m gradually getting used to the fact I’m to be allowed no privacy for my grief.’
‘Sorry, sir. There’s a duty to be done.’
‘So you’ve already pointed out.’
‘Look, Mr Cheesman, I’d like you to understand that even if I am a policeman I can sympathise. But … You went out shooting on Saturday afternoon?’
‘I’ve already said so several times.’
‘For the first half you stayed where the two bits of the wood join and you waited for the pheasants to come over?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you prove you stayed at the join?’
‘Since I was on my own that’s hardly likely.’
‘How often and at what sort of intervals did you hear Mr Tetley shooting?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to try, sir.’
‘Why? Why should I bother? My wife’s dead. Let me alone to get used to the fact.’
‘I’ve my investigations to make, sir.’
‘She’s dead … She’s dead. What needs investigating about that?’
‘The question may well be, sir, ’oo killed her.’
Mark Cheesman’s right hand jerked to one side. The glass fell on to the c
arpet. It did not break but the inch of whisky and soda flowed over the carpet, staining it.
*
Pope climbed the four stone steps which gave access to the interior of the ugly, dirty, proportionless building. He disliked the Temple and all it stood for. The halls of the Inns of Court, their gardens, libraries, chapels. It was a tight circle of privilege.
The big wooden door on the right of the ground floor was swung back and the printed names of the occupants of the chambers were visible. S.J Tetley was half-way down the list. Pope knocked on the inner door which was opened within seconds by a man in his late thirties, dressed in black coat, striped trousers, grey tie, white shirt. The latter said: ‘Yes, sir?’
‘I’m Detective-Superintendent Pope. Got an appointment to see Mr Tetley. I believe the local police arranged it for me.’
‘Come in, sir, we were expecting you.’ They walked along a short passage on the left-hand side of which were several bookcases filled with law books. Pope hated them all. So many people escaped justice because of them.
The clerk knocked on the door at the end of the passage, opened it. ‘Detective-Superintendent Pope, Mr Tetley.’
Tetley stood up. His desk was a large one, yet at first glance the whole of its surface seemed to be covered with books and papers. On the mantelpiece behind him were still more books and papers. ‘Come on in, Superintendent.’
The second man in the room moved out from behind a smaller desk. ‘I’ll be away, Stuart. Appearing in Westminster County Court this afternoon so I might as well get moving and have an early lunch.’ He was short, fat, swarthy. He smiled vaguely at Pope, left the room.
‘Would you care for tea, sir?’ asked the clerk.
‘How about a cuppa?’ suggested Tetley.
‘Not for me,’ replied Pope. He thought the word “cuppa” had been used solely because he was there.
The clerk was about to leave when he said: ‘Don’t forget Mr Silton wants you to ring him about the Langton case. He’s very worried as to what effect the letter our client sent will have.’
‘Silton is too windy for a man in his position — if I’d been our chap I’d have written something very much stronger than he did.’
The clerk left. Tetley indicated the wooden and uncomfortable looking chair before his desk. ‘Now, Superintendent. Looking for advice on how to get round the Judges’ Rules? I can give you at least six ways, each one of which is perfectly legitimate.’
‘Just a few more questions about the death of Mrs Cheesman, sir.’
Tetley moved two paces to his right and leaned against the mantelpiece. ‘Why are you so set on the idea it wasn’t an accident?’
‘Haven’t said I am, sir.’
Tetley laughed shortly. ‘I won’t bite that one! … Superintendent, I’ve known the Cheesmans for a long time. They were as happy as the day was long and as much in love with each other as on the day they were married. When I saw them together it damn near made me think matrimony was something to be courted. So when you think in terms other than an accident, you’ve got to think of a stranger going into the house on that Saturday and for no reason committing murder. No court would listen to such a suggestion.’
‘Glad you pointed that out, Mr Tetley. Stopped me making a fool of myself.’
Tetley laughed. ‘All right — so I was busy telling you your job.’
‘Lots of people try to do that. We get used to it, sir … Shan’t take up more of your time than I ’ave to. When did you last have an ’air-cut?’
‘A what?’
‘Hair-cut.’
‘That comes into the category of unexpected questions. Like asking me when did I last wash behind my ears. Answer: this morning.’
‘You had your hair cut this morning?’
‘I washed behind my ears.’
‘Could you keep to the question, please.’
‘I don’t know. I may refuse to answer anything — as I’m fully entitled to do. Nothing can compel me to answer a single one of your questions.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘Something else you already knew?’
‘Never bothered with the question, sir. If a man’s got nothing to ’ide, he won’t object to talking.’
‘A typical policeman’s ploy which in one sweep denies the citizen all his hard-won rights.’
‘Could we please get back to what’s important? When did you last have an ’air-cut?’
‘Must have been a week ago today. Trim sides and top which I timed at eight minutes and for which I was charged the exorbitant sum of five shillings.’
‘Where was this?’
‘My usual place along Fleet Street. Chap’s a first-class crook but he has some remarkable racing tips. Only too remarkable, sometimes.’
‘What’s the name of the shop?’
‘It advertises itself under the “good old English name” of Lugino.’
‘One last thing, sir. Can I have a few hairs from your head?’
‘Hairs from my head?’
‘Pulled out by the roots, please.’
‘The law’s no respecter of persons, is it?’
*
Detective Dykes entered the hairdressing salon in the High Street at Ashford. He walked through the shop to the men’s department.
Trade was not brisk. One man and one boy were having their hair cut. Judging by the four empty barber’s chairs there were four unemployed assistants somewhere.
‘’Morning, sir,’ said the nearest man. ‘That chair over there if you’d be so good.’ He tapped the floor twice with the heel of his right shoe.
‘Sorry — all I want are the answers to some questions.’
‘Questions?’
A white-coated assistant came through the doorway that was where the room took a half turn on itself.
‘Police enquiries. Won’t keep you a second.’ All other business ceased.
‘Does anyone here know Mr Mark Cheesman? If the name means nothing, here’s a photograph of him.’
The photograph was passed from man to man. All three assistants said they’d cut Cheesman’s hair at one time or another.
‘Did any of you do him last week or was it someone who isn’t here now?’
They thought.
‘It was me,’ said one. ‘He came in just after we’d opened and asked me to get a move on ’cause he was catching the next train to London.’
‘Any idea what day this would have been?’
‘Let’s think now.’ The man rubbed his chin, scratched the right side of his neck. Suddenly, he clicked his fingers. ‘That’s right. It was Tuesday. Not last Tuesday, you’ll understand, but the one before that. I know that’s the day it was because I remember telling him he were only just ahead of the queue what would soon form because it was market day. Funny thing is, not many ever did come in.’
‘You’ve a good memory.’
‘Funny you should mention that. Always prided myself on it, I have. Not a memory man, you’ll understand, but I don’t forget much.’
‘Could you go so far as to tell me which pair of scissors you were using?’
‘That’s an easy one. Same pair as now.’
‘Excellent. One last thing. Would you get some hair for me and cut it at both ends with the same pair of scissors?’
‘Blimey — what goes on?’
‘Very secret and confidential. Something to do with the atom station at Dungeness.’
*
I pushed my typewriter to one side and stretched out my arms. No more than five hundred words to show for the day’s work. They had not been coming easily. I wondered if the prolific authors, those who turned, or churned, out a dozen books a year, ever thought about what they were writing or whether the process was so automatic they could occupy their time by worrying about how they were going to spend all the money they were in the process of making.
On the settee the morning papers lay open at the second page. Half-way down in the third column was a short paragraph concerned with t
he enquiries into the death of the celebrated country hostess, Mrs Lindy Cheesman, late wife of Mark Cheesman. The social angle was there, but so was something else. The fact that the police suspected murder and were asking Mark and Stuart a lot of questions. Of course, no conclusions were drawn. But with the paper’s flair for saying all that had to be said without saying it, no reader would be in any doubt.
I lit a cigarette. Poor Mark: poor Lindy.
There was a knock at the door and through the window I saw the small, furry, undulating, superintendent and his much more stolid sergeant. I checked with my watch. Sheer coincidence they had arrived at drink-time?
I opened the front door and ushered them into the sitting-room. Pope complained of the cold, put more wood on the fire. I thought about sending him my next bill for logs. The sergeant sat in the nearer of the arm-chairs and tried to make himself comfortable between the bumps and hollows. I suddenly saw him as an over-dignified rook.
‘Beer?’ I asked.
‘Go down a treat,’ answered Pope.
I gave them each half a pint. They’d want a refill, and if I made it a pint each time I’d be skinned of beer.
Pope offered cigarettes. I noticed how stained his fingers were from smoking. ‘How do Cheesman and Tetley get on together?’ he asked.
‘In what way?’
‘As friends.’
‘Like most people, I suppose.’
‘That’s no answer.’
‘I can’t think of any other.’
‘Still sticking to principles, Mr Waring. Yet you never went to Winchester.’
‘That’s a fine example of a non sequitor.’ Ventnor suddenly belched, hastily apologised.
‘Mr Waring won’t mind,’ said Pope with annoying certainty. ‘Better out than in.’
‘Stuff’s all gas these day,’ observed Ventnor. Pope flicked ash from his cigarette into the grate. ‘Nice to have everything in the world handed to you on a plate. Money, position, security. Makes life seem worth while after all.’ I smiled briefly. ‘I take it we’re back to Mark Cheesman?’
‘Could be.’
‘Then as I tried to tell you last time, it isn’t quite as you’d like to think it. Mark had very little capital at the start of his married life — that’s why he began with such a millstone round his neck.’
‘Of ping-pong balls?’
‘Have you never stopped to think he probably bought his house on mortgage like tens of thousands of other people? That he had to borrow the money with which to furnish it? It wasn’t any small item, either. Lindy wasn’t the person to economise: she thought the most expensive was the best, and the best was barely good enough.’
Evidence of the Accused Page 5
