Flecker said, “We came about a coat. Have you or had you, a dark grey tweed sports coat with white flecks?”
“Yes.” Barclay looked surprised. “As far as I know I’ve still got it. I bought it off the peg two or three years ago; my mother had a fit of grumbling that my clothes were too loud or something and I thought grey would be quieter, but she didn’t like it either; it was badly cut or too loosely woven or something, I forget. But what’s happened now? Don’t say you’ve found it covered in blood or something?”
“We’re checking up on all dark grey coats; could we have a look at yours, do you think?”
“Yes, of course. Come indoors and I’ll fetch it.” He looked desperately worried.
Jean Barclay was in the hall—she wore an apron over corduroy slacks and had a duster in her hand; she looked hot and rather cross, but the cross look gave way to one of consternation when she saw Paul accompanied by the detectives.
Flecker and Browning said good morning and Barclay explained that they wanted to see one of his coats. “I’ll just run up and get it,” he said, “if you’ll wait there.”
Flecker stared absent-mindedly into space and Browning talked to Jean. “I expect you’d rather be out on the old horse this lovely weather,” he said.
“Yes, I would.” Jean sounded a little defiant. “If you ask me, housework’s a total loss. You dust and by next day the dust is back. With five dogs in the house the kitchen floor is always filthy and wherever my husband goes he leaves a trail of hayseeds behind him. One might just as well go out riding and have some fun.”
Flecker looked up at the ceiling. “He’s making a bit of a racket up there, isn’t he? I don’t think he can find it.”
“It’s probably hanging in the cupboard where we keep the gumboots and mackintoshes,” said Jean. “Which coat is it? I’ll go and look.”
“A dark grey tweed sports coat with white flecks,” Flecker told her. She smiled with relief. “Oh, that,” she said. “He won’t find it. I sent it to the jumble sale without telling Paul, I was so fed up with his ma’s remarks.”
“Will you fetch him down, please?” Flecker asked Browning, and turning to Jean he said, “Can you remember which day you sent it to the sale?”
“It was before Saturday, before the murders began,” Jean answered triumphantly. “Actually I didn’t send it, I took it and masses of other stuff and I called at The Paddocks and took some stuff from my mother-in-law too.”
“You’re sure it was before the murders?”
“Yes, honestly, I’m positive. You see Ma’s been here ever since so I couldn’t be making a mistake.”
“Did you take it on the way to the hunter trials?” asked Flecker.
“No, it was before that; it was about Wednesday or Thursday, I think. If it’s important to know I’ll go and ring up my mother-in-law, she’s gone to see an old friend of hers in Bretford, but I can find out the number from enquiries.”
“Don’t bother,” said Flecker; “when she comes back will do. You’re sure that you didn’t tell anyone that you’d sent the coat to the sale?”
“Positive. I did it off my own bat, I was so fed up with my mother-in-law’s remarks.”
Paul Barclay had a faint look of injured virtue when Browning brought him downstairs. “I seem to be in the clear this time,” he said.
“Perhaps,” answered Flecker, looking at him thoughtfully, “and perhaps not. Has anyone any idea where Mrs. Willis kept the stuff until the sale?” he asked casually.
Paul Barclay shook his head and Jean said, “I can’t imagine, there must have been tons of room in the Old Rectory but the new one’s only got three bedrooms. Oh well, I suppose that leaves one spare.”
Flecker looked at Barclay. “What about that list you were making for me?” he asked. “The Land Rover’s timetable?”
“Oh, it’s all ready,” Barclay said, and produced it from his wallet.
“Thank you very much.” Flecker stuffed it in his pocket with the envelopes without looking at it. “Well, we’ll be on our way. Back to the Rectory then,” he said to Browning, when they were in the car.
“It’s after one,” Browning pointed out.
“Oh well, we’d better make it bread and cheese and beer again, there’s no time for anything else.”
“The Carpenter’s Arms?” asked Browning. “That was a nice glass of beer we had there and I could have another stick session with old Nigger.”
“Anything you like,” said Flecker, relapsing into thought.
When his hunger was satisfied and he had reduced Nigger to a state of slavering exhaustion, Browning showed an inclination to talk about the case. “Well, if it wasn’t Harris and it wasn’t Master Paul Barclay, who’s your money on now?” he asked, sipping contentedly at his beer.
“Anyone who had access to the Rectory stable,” answered Flecker. “Unless there’s a pair of trousers to match the jacket,” he added with a grin. “Come on, drink up. We’ve got to be in Crossley at three. Oh, and did I tell you the envelopes matched? Which proves nothing much except that Barclay proposed to give and hadn’t just received.”
The front door of the Rectory stood open and the sun slanted in on the tiled floor of the hall; it was the Rector, blinking in the strong sunlight, who answered Browning’s ring. Flecker said, “I’m afraid we’re making a nuisance of ourselves, this is the second time today.”
“Not at all, not at all. We’re only too glad to help in any way we can. I’ll fetch my wife, she’s washing up, I think.”
“Just a minute, I’ve got a question for you, too,” called Flecker. He sorted through his envelopes. “Oh yes, can you shoot?”
A series of twitches convulsed Willis’s face. He waited for them to subside before he answered, then smiling thinly he said, “I’m afraid I’m all too proficient. I saw war service as a padre in Burma and there was a time when I ceased to be noncombatant. I proved to be a very adequate shot and, when the ammunition ran out, I became expert with a knife.”
“It’s only a routine question,” Flecker told him. “I forgot to ask you last time I came. What about Mrs. Willis, can she shoot?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I doubt whether she’s ever handled a gun.”
Joan Willis, attracted by voices, came through into the hall rolling down the sleeves of her blouse. “Back again?” she asked. “And what can I do for you this time?”
“Answer some more questions, I’m afraid,” said Flecker. “First of all, did you keep the Old Rectory stable locked?”
“Goodness gracious, no! This isn’t London. Winmore End’s a most law-abiding place and I can’t imagine anyone bothering to steal jumble.”
Flecker grinned. “I wouldn’t call it law-abiding,” he said. “Two murders seem to me excessive when you consider the size of the population; your crime rate will be miles above the national average.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the murders,” Joan Willis answered huffily. “What I meant was that things don’t get pinched in the country like they do in towns; you don’t have to spend your life locking up.”
“Who knew that you kept the jumble in the stable?” asked Flecker.
“Practically the whole place. In a village everyone knows everything—you can’t have secrets.”
“I expect that everyone knew that you used to keep the stuff there, but since your move you might easily keep it here,” Flecker pointed out. “Who saw you going in and out with the jumble?”
“Look, I went in and out of that stable with armfuls of jumble until I was fed up to the back teeth with it and then I made Gillian take it. Anyone could have seen us.”
“I expect saturation point was reached after Saturday, though. The tempo of arrival must have stepped up as the sale drew near. Who knew of your decision to keep the stuff there in the first place?”
“Well, the Rector knew, of course, and I think I told the Sinclairs and Mrs. Carlson.”
“Not the Barclays?”
“No, I didn’t
tell them, but Paul was popping in and out to see Lesley Carlson so I’m not going to say he didn’t know.”
“And you still haven’t remembered which day Mrs. Paul brought her jumble?”
Joan Willis shook her head. “No, I honestly can’t say. I really haven’t a clue. I’ve been chasing my tail these past few weeks—you can’t expect me to remember a thing like that.”
“And now,” said Flecker, shutting the door in the wall behind him, “for the boss. What a life. How can you report progress to a voracious chief constable before you’ve been able to sort things out yourself?”
“I’ve got a nice sharp pencil,” offered Browning, “if you’d like to put anything down—”
Flecker shook his head. “No, thanks, I shall improvize as I go along.”
They reached the police station at ten minutes to three and dived downstairs for a wash before going to Miller’s office. The Inspector greeted them cheerfully. “Come along in and sit down,” he said. “Too warm for running about. I don’t suppose the chief will be long.”
They sat down and Flecker produced an envelope. “I’m afraid I want you to do something for me,” he told Miller.
“No need to be afraid, always glad to help and I must say you haven’t bothered us much so far; we hardly know you’re here.”
“Well, I’m afraid this isn’t very spectacular. I don’t want the sewer grids up, it’s just that on the evening of the murders the Reverend Frank Willis of St. James’s, Winmore End, came to Crossley on his bicycle to attend a meeting at the church hall. When he got there he found that he was a week too soon. He seems to have stood about in the church hall porch and then gone into St. Mary’s. He says that he didn’t see anyone, but I feel that he’s more noticeable than noticing.”
“Yes, tall, thin stooping chap, if I remember rightly, and then people always remember clerical clothes. Anyway, the old almshouses are opposite the church hall so I expect he was seen all right. I’ll have enquiries made.” He got up and went through to the outer office.
When he came back he carried a sheet of paper. “Something for you,” he said, handing it to Flecker. “Just come through on the teleprinter.” Flecker began to read and then suddenly his face hardened. “Here,” he said, passing the paper to Browning. “Situations which the Jackson agency found for Miss Schmidt previous to her employment by Mrs. A. R. Sinclair,” Browning read aloud: “Mrs. C. A. Carlson, Mrs. Grenville-Lomas, Miss Gotch.” He looked enquiringly at Flecker.
“You think it’s our Mrs. Carlson?” asked Miller. “I was wondering.”
“I may be jumping to conclusions, but I understand that Mrs. Carlson’s husband left her for their foreign home help, only I got the impression that she was a glamorous Italian.”
“Looks very bad, keeping it quiet like that,” observed Browning. Abruptly Flecker came to a decision. “We’ll get up there right away,” he said, making for the door. “Will you make my apologies to Mr. Dobson, please, Miller?”
“You’re not going now, without seeing him?” Miller sounded horrified.
“Yes, this is important.”
“But whatever shall I tell him?”
“That something unexpected cropped up—oh, anything,” answered Flecker impatiently from the door.
“But the progress report? That’s what he wants.”
“Tell him that we’re in hell’s own muddle,” said Flecker bitterly and made for the street.
*
The detectives drove to Winmore End without speaking. Browning took one look at his chief’s face and decided that speed and silence were the order of the day. Still in silence, he followed Flecker into the Old Rectory stable yard, under the chestnut tree, now clothed in the full glory of its bouffant greenery, and stood beside him as he pressed a thumb on Lesley Carlson’s bell and kept it there. Flecker’s ring brought Anthony downstairs at the double. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I thought it sounded like someone in a frightful hurry.”
“Sorry,” Flecker tried to relax the angry lines of his face, “but we are in rather a rush. Is your mother at home?”
“Yes, we’ve started turning out the cupboards and things; it’s a waste of a lovely day, but we’ve got to leave here at the end of the holidays.”
“Could you spare a few minutes to show Sergeant Browning the stable?” asked Flecker. “Especially the place where Mrs. Willis kept the jumble, and while you’re doing that I’ll run up and see your mother.”
“OK,” said Anthony and as he led Browning across the yard he asked, “Are you expecting to find a clue?”
Flecker took the stairs two at a time, and calling “Mrs. Carlson,” made his way to the sitting-room. Lesley met him at the door.
“Oh, good morning, I mean afternoon.” She sounded surprised.
Flecker said, “Anthony is showing my sergeant the stable. I wanted a word with you alone. Why didn’t you tell me that you once employed Hilda Schmidt?”
Lesley Carlson blushed guiltily. “You didn’t ask me anything about her; I didn’t know you wanted to know,” she answered lamely.
“You’re not a good liar so you’d better be honest with me,” Flecker told her angrily. “I know that your husband left you for a foreign girl. Was it for Miss Schmidt? You’d better sit down and tell me the whole story and the plain truth would save time because I shall have it checked—”
Lesley Carlson sat down. She looked so small and frightened and defenceless that Flecker was ashamed of his words. He justified himself angrily, “I wouldn’t have believed that educated people could have behaved so stupidly as you and Barclay.”
Lesley Carlson didn’t try to answer that. She said, “Hilda Schmidt came to work for me when Anthony was four. It was her second job in England. She’d been brought over by an army family who’d been stationed in Germany. After five or six months she and my husband went off together. He was already ill and the excitement and everything made him much worse; he went into a sanatorium with TB and then they found he had lung cancer too. Three months later he died. I used to visit him in the sanatorium; we didn’t make our differences public, but I knew that if he recovered he would ask me for a divorce and marry Hilda. Anthony knows nothing of this and I don’t intend that he shall, ever.”
“When Hilda Schmidt appeared in the village, you didn’t say anything to the Sinclairs?”
“I did try to warn Veronica in a round-about way. I told her that my husband had fallen for a foreign home help and that she’d better beware, but she didn’t take me very seriously. She said that ‘her Hilda’ was terribly unattractive and that Aubrey simply loathed her. After that I just hoped that everything would be all right; I couldn’t tell them the whole story. Hilda and I avoided each other; we’ve never spoken except to say ‘good morning’ once or twice when we met in the lane.”
“Anthony didn’t recognize her?”
“No, he didn’t seem to. Of course he doesn’t go to the Sinclairs at all really, the children are much too young for him.”
“And on the Saturday evening before last—the night Colonel Barclay and Miss Schmidt were murdered—you were wandering about the village?”
“I wasn’t really wandering; I went to post a letter and I was as quick as I could be because I was expecting Paul.”
“You posted it in the pillar box outside the post office?”
“Yes.”
“Did you meet or see anyone?”
“No.”
“You were seen; spoken to, in fact, but you didn’t answer.”
“I expect I was thinking.”
“About something special?”
Lesley gave in. “I had decided that things between Paul and myself must end, and the letter was accepting a job I’d been offered as secretary to a prep. school. I posted it before Paul came because I wanted to present him with a fait accompli.”
“How did he take it?”
“He argued, but I think in a way he was quite glad. He hadn’t been enjoying the muddle and the subterfuge any mo
re than I had and I think he was afraid of hurting Jean. He isn’t a strong character, but he’s very kind.”
“Can you shoot?” asked Flecker.
“No, I’ve never tried, except for water pistols and things like that.” Flecker got up and began to pace up and down the room. “I wish you’d told me all this in the first place,” he said. “It looks so bad being dragged out now; you realize what a terrible construction could be put on it?”
“I hoped you wouldn’t find out,” said Lesley in a small voice.
Flecker pushed back his hair. “Oh, I know we’re slow and we’re plodders and we look half-baked, but that’s just the sort of thing we do find out. Now look.” He sat down again. “You gave Barclay an alibi for an hour or so on the Saturday evening, but if you were running to the post you weren’t here.”
“No, but he was up here waiting when I got back.”
“And where was the Land Rover?”
“Parked in the stable yard.”
“And Anthony?”
“He’d gone out with the Feltons; they had a nephew of about his age to stay.”
For a few minutes Flecker sat in thoughtful silence, then he asked, “What time does the evening post go?”
“I don’t really know. About six something, I think.”
“Did you catch it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look at the time. When I’d made up my mind to post the letter I just ran.”
“You didn’t notice whether the little white tablet which tells you the time of the next post had been changed?”
“I don’t think it had. I don’t really remember, but I don’t think it had been changed to the Sunday one.” She put her hand to her forehead. “I think it still said six-something, but I was too fussed, it didn’t really register.”
“And you didn’t go anywhere near Well Cottage or the plantation?”
Leslie gave him a look of horror. “No,” she said.
They Died in the Spring Page 13
