An Alibi Too Soon

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

  ‘Hurry, Richard.’

  ‘Got to stop it,’ I said.

  She knew what I meant. I explored the stream with my torch, flicked its beam down into the millrace.

  The sluice gates had been opened. Now the stream was swinging part of its energy into the race, where the bottom third of the wheel was covered. The water crowded and surged to climb over and round the paddles.

  It was dangerous to stand there. The bank down to the stream was steep, but there was a fence guarding the millrace. A low fence. I allowed myself to slip down to it. There was prepared access to both the gates, each like a miniature canal lock. I nearly made a mistake. My mind wasn’t operating properly, and I very nearly closed the lower gate before I’d closed the upper one.

  I now had to scramble up the bank again, when one false step would have thrown me into the stream. Then a trek round the mill and a descent to the upper gate. It took very little effort to close it. The main force of the stream was intended to hold it shut. This meant it would have needed considerable effort to open it.

  As it closed, the water level subsided, gurgling and surging against the back-flow from the lower gate. The wheel sighed, then was at peace.

  In the light from my torch I watched the water as it receded, black down there, watched as the obstruction was slowly revealed: the trailing legs, the shirt of an indecipherable colour, the hair, still caught back by its yellow rubber band.

  Slowly I climbed back, my legs shaking. It seemed a great effort to make the full distance around the mill, and I had, to persuade myself of the necessity to slide down and close the lower gate. I did not raise the torch beam to see what effect this had had.

  Far away I could hear the wail of a police siren: Davies would send them up here. The mist was surging with blue to the rotation of the car’s roof light.

  I bent against the door of the Stag.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we shan’t be able to leave for a little while. Why don’t you come and sit in the other car? It’ll be drier, more comfortable.’

  ‘The other car?’ Her voice lacked life.

  ‘The BMW.’

  ‘Rosemary’s?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think she’d mind.’

  17

  The key was in the ignition lock so I ran up the engine to get some warmth into the car. Amelia was shivering. I sat beside her, and for a while she didn’t speak, asked no questions, seemed stunned. Eventually I said I’d go and see what was happening, but without enthusiasm. Amelia didn’t glance at me.

  ‘She was coming to see you, Richard,’ she said softly, miserably.

  ‘Yes. To see me.’ I thumped the heel of my hand on the steering wheel. ‘And the terrible thing is that I knew what she wanted to tell me. If I’d been here…’

  ‘Not your fault.’ She pressed my arm. ‘If she slipped in the dark…’

  ‘No!’ I cut in. I cleared my throat. ‘She was coming to tell me what’s been obvious for a long while. Which was that she was the one who’d bought that booze in the boot of her car, and bought it purely and simply because Edwin asked her to. But if she did that…Amelia, I’ve been so damned slow in understanding. Fit that in with Edwin’s actions on the evening he died—heavens, we know what that meant…he was arranging an alibi for himself. The drinks Rosemary bought were the centre-pin of his alibi. But after he died, Rosemary must have understood what he’d been doing…must have.’

  ‘You can’t assume that,’ she murmured, tapping my knuckles reprovingly.

  I glanced at the rear-view mirror. Activity was strung out down the approach drive, lights bobbing and vehicles manoeuvring. ‘I think I can,’ I told her. ‘You see, Rosemary herself received one of those threatening letters. As Edwin’s secretary, she more than likely opened the one addressed to him. As we were saying, they were bait, to see who reacted. And there was Rosemary, observing what was happening—even helping him—and she saw her uncle reacting like mad. So when he died, she could hardly help but realise that she’d been a party in arranging his alibi, and that he’d intended to eliminate the person who was issuing those threats.’

  ‘And she’s said nothing?’ Amelia stirred. The dull grey disc of her face turned towards me. ‘All these years, Richard, and she’s said nothing!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You can be annoying! What do you mean: exactly? And with poor Duncan in prison!’

  ‘I know. She said nothing about what she suspected, and allowed Duncan to go to prison. But don’t forget, there’d been that distressing episode with Glenda, and it was Edwin who’d stepped in, just when she needed somebody. So she wasn’t at that time desperately concerned about Duncan, and after all they were only suspicions. And she loved Edwin. In effect, they’d come together at a time when they needed each other. She loved Edwin for his inadequacy. She thought his failures as a director weren’t terribly important. They’d seem to her to be a reflection of his modesty as a writer. It wasn’t modesty—the plays weren’t his work—but she didn’t know that. Edwin was frantic to succeed in something. He was in despair at the end, and it wouldn’t have been at all surprising if he’d really committed suicide.’

  ‘Poor, dear man,’ she whispered.

  I glanced at her. ‘Yes…poor Edwin. But you can see how they needed each other, Edwin and Rosemary. Yet…and have you thought of this, my dear?…the arranging of the alibi and the death of Edwin meant one thing she would have to face. The trap had been set for whoever had killed Glenda Grace, and it was Edwin who’d fallen head first into it. So her beloved Edwin had killed her daughter.’

  I heard Amelia draw in a deep breath, but she didn’t say anything. I went on quietly.

  ‘He didn’t know that, of course. All Edwin would know was that Glenda had already hurt Rosemary deeply, with what had happened over Duncan. Then, at the party at his flat, there was Glenda again, and Rosemary was once more deeply affected. Remember, she was physically sick. That would be too much for Edwin. He wasn’t going to allow that piece of rubbish—as he’d consider Glenda to be—to harm his Rosemary. So, he helped her on her way from his balcony. No…don’t say anything. Let me finish. It means that Rosemary discovered this on the evening Edwin died, and still she said nothing. I said she only suspected who had killed him, but I believe she gradually came to know who and why. Mind you, I think she’d still have remained silent, if it hadn’t been for this business with Duncan and the copyright discovery. It changed everything. Her whole life was going to open up with Duncan. She wanted it to start clear of any background worries…so she came here to tell me that she was the one who’d bought the booze that was on the back seat of her car.’

  Amelia was silent for a full minute. ‘I see,’ she said at last.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Why you’re so angry with yourself.’

  ‘It shows, does it?’

  ‘When you go all quiet, and your voice gets toneless.’

  I tried to laugh, but it nearly choked me. ‘She came here to tell me that, not realising she’d be telling me who killed Edwin and Llew Hughes. But that person realised, followed her here…’ Her fingers were on my arm. I reached over and rested my hand on hers. ‘If I’d been a little brighter, just a bit quicker on the uptake, I could have understood all this, and seen how dangerous it would be for her to tell me, and…oh hell, I don’t know! That blasted Grayson!’

  ‘He’s nothing. He doesn’t matter. Don’t let him upset you, Richard.’

  ‘He got it all wrong, everything. The time of Edwin’s death, the motive, even the means! Think what happened—Edwin spending all evening trying to arrange himself a perfect alibi. He was going to return after a while with beer and spirits on the rear seat of the car, as though he’d driven into England for it, when all the time he intended to drive in the opposite direction. Of course, nobody would be there to meet him. That wouldn’t be necessary. He’d already made it clear he was taking the bait. But he must have been so anxious t
o get it all correct to the last detail that he switched the stuff from the boot to the back seat before he left. And his murderer, watching the garage from the shadows, must have enjoyed a long and happy laugh because an alibi was being created by Edwin, and it was one the murderer could use. A tap on the head, shut the door, and it’d be done. It was going to look as though Edwin had died when he returned, at which time the murderer would be sharing company in the dining room. Heavens, it was lovely!’

  ‘Now you’re being bitter, Richard. It’s another sign.’

  In the dark I turned and grinned at her, at least I uncovered my teeth. ‘Yes love, I’m furious. And before I use any of it on you…’

  ‘That’s likely!’

  ‘…I’ll just go and tell them we’re leaving.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Let’s get away from here.’ She wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

  ‘I’ll be a couple of minutes.’

  She didn’t notice when I reached into the glove compartment, where I knew it would be, and slipped out the control radio for Rosemary’s garage door. With this in my pocket, I climbed out of the BMW.

  It had stopped raining. The mist was sinking gradually into the ground, and on the edge of the sky the light was reaching beneath the bank of cloud. The effect was of sunrise, though the sun had never risen from that direction. The mill was taking shape, its anonymous menace mellowing into acceptable solidity.

  I had taken Cindy with me, partly to allow her a little freedom but mainly so that I could cling to her lead. It gave my left hand something to do. The other hand gripped my pipe. It was desperately important to have both hands occupied.

  I found Grayson inside the mill. He was talking to another man, whom I’d never seen, and who was sitting casually on the millstone, one toe reaching the floor, the other swinging idly. He was wearing a dark hat and a short Crombie coat, and by virtue of his quiet confidence I guessed him to be a senior officer, probably Chief Superintendent of the county CID.

  They turned and looked at me. The light in there had banished the haunting shadows and came from two portable shaded lamps. It was not bright enough for me to be able to read the expression on the stranger’s thin, aesthetic face. I spoke directly to Grayson.

  ‘We’re leaving now. My wife’s feeling better.’ That was in case he cared. He didn’t. His reply was harsh and strained.

  ‘You’ll leave when I say.’

  I listened to my own even voice, admiring the control. ‘You know where to find me. We’re both very tired, and we haven’t eaten for a long while.’

  I turned away. His voice snapped out. ‘Stay where you are.’

  Slowly I twisted back, making shushing noises to Cindy, who was grumbling deep in her little chest. ‘Something more?’

  ‘There are charges…’

  ‘Nonsense. You’re not competent to make valid charges, Grayson.’

  You balled up the Edwin Carter investigation, you’ve deliberately confused the Llew Hughes murder…’

  He took two paces towards me. Now I could grin freely, delighted that he was offering me another chance. The stranger’s swinging toe halted.

  He did not raise his voice.

  ‘Grayson!’

  Grayson halted. I’d got my confirmation; this was indeed a senior officer. Looking past Grayson’s shoulder, I spoke directly to him.

  ‘Do you know the Edwin Carter case?’

  ‘I’ve read the case papers.’

  ‘Then…for your information…I’ll tell you that I can prove that your investigating officer—Grayson here—made a complete botch of it. Duncan Carter could not have killed his Uncle Edwin. The time of death was assumed incorrectly. Even the wonderful theory of the garage door was invalid. I’m quite prepared to go into full detail. But not now.’

  ‘And this?’ A slim hand moved, embracing the mill and its tragedy.

  There was the flash of a white shirt cuff.

  ‘Rosemary was hoping to see me here, but I was delayed. Ask Grayson about that.’ I flashed a grimace at Grayson, who was poised, face set, eyes venomous. ‘She was followed here by someone who put Constable Davies out of action before throwing Rosemary into the millrace.’

  ‘The same person who…’

  ‘Who killed Edwin Carter, yes.’

  ‘The name?’

  ‘I think I know.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘Only theory.’

  ‘Ah!’ A thin smile came my way. ‘Pity. I’ll see you—your hotel—in the morning. Shall we say?’

  ‘In the morning.’

  Then I really did move away, and managed two paces towards the door. Feet rapped on the naked floorboards behind me and a fist clamped on my shoulder. I stood very still. A throat was cleared. The fingers relaxed and I swivelled my head to stare into Grayson’s wild eyes.

  ‘And ask Mr Grayson’, I said, ‘how Duncan’s fingerprints came to be on the radio that operated the garage door.’ I produced it, and waved it under Grayson’s nose. ‘This one, in fact. Ask him that, when the evidence is that at least half a dozen people handled it after Duncan had tried to open the door with it. Ask Grayson’, I said, directly into Grayson’s face, ‘whether he got Duncan to show him how the radio worked, after Grayson had carefully cleaned it. Misinterpreting evidence is one thing. Anybody can do that. But what sort of policeman fakes the evidence?’

  There was silence. Nobody moved. I broke it by saying quietly: ‘The sort who’d love to shut my mouth by sticking his fist in it?’

  The silence was unbroken when I walked out into the damp evening, very proud of my restraint. I could have claimed self-defence.

  Amelia saw me coming and hopped out of Rosemary’s car. ‘You were more than two minutes,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘Time well spent. Let’s see if we can get the Stag out.’

  There were cars and vans parked behind us all the way down the approach track, but I was in no mood to be obstructed. A bit of to-and-froing got me facing down the slope, and I slid and bumped past them, two wheels up the bank most of the time, and coasted down to the farm.

  The sun, having risen to chase away the lower edge of the clouds, had tired of the game, and was now sinking behind the mountains. A short day for the sun, a long one for me.

  I turned in through the entrance to the farm. The old man must have been at the window, and had the door open before we’d crossed the yard. Amelia questioned nothing.

  ‘How is he?’ I asked.

  Davies answered himself. They had him sitting at the table, drinking tea. He was still a little grey, but colour crept into his cheeks when he saw us.

  ‘Oh Lord, am I glad…’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Amelia quickly, understanding his concern. ‘You look terrible, Constable.’

  His smile was twisted. ‘Call me Owen, ma’am.’

  We were invited to sit at the table. The teapot was huge. Between us we drained it twice, that and hand-crafted pork pie followed by slices of spiced cake setting us up, restoring us to normal. I brought Davies up to date with events. His face became set, and I could see he blamed himself for Rosemary’s death. I shook my head at him. We both knew who was to blame.

  Eventually: ‘Are you fit to drive your van?’ I asked him.

  ‘Where d’you want me to go?’

  ‘Plas Ceiriog.’

  ‘Not far. I can manage it.’

  We said thanks and goodbye to the farmer and his wife. I knew they would never be our neighbours. Then we drove away, Amelia beside me and Davies ahead in his van. He’d insisted on leading, claiming he knew a short cut, which proved to be tortuous and bumpy. When we reached the drive to Plas Ceiriog I flashed him not to drive all the way up to it. He allowed me to pass him, and I led the way to the parking patch in front of the garages. We cut engines and lights, and had a conference.

  ‘What’ve you got in mind?’ Owen asked.

  I took a few paces to the right and looked up towards the house. The lights were bright, flooding out
on to the terrace. ‘A sort of reconstruction,’ I told him.

  Owen’s eyes gleamed. ‘I’ve always wanted to be in one of those.’

  ‘They don’t always work. Have you got a small screwdriver in your kit?’

  ‘Got everything.’ He went to fetch it.

  Amelia tugged at my arm. ‘What is it you’re doing, Richard?’

  ‘A kind of trap. There’s a bit in it for you, my dear. How are you as an actress?’

  ‘Quite hopeless.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘But you can’t expect me to…all those professionals…Richard!’

  I turned to Owen. ‘Got one? Good.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell me what to do,’ said Amelia weakly.

  ‘It’ll be easy,’ I assured her.

  The garage door went up smoothly when I operated the radio. We went inside, and I put on the lights. As I’d guessed, the wiring ran nakedly up the wall from the external switch, and it took only a second to disconnect it. I ran the Stag inside, cut the engine, and explained.

  ‘I want it just as it was on the night Edwin died. Car inside ticking over, door closed. We’ll get Duncan down here—that’s your job, Amelia. I want you to walk in—the front door, I think, to make it seem we’ve just driven up there—and ask if anybody’s seen Rosemary.’

  ‘Oh…I couldn’t. Why me?’

  ‘Or Owen could do it. But it would seem more natural for you to.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘That’s fine then. And when they say no, as they will, and probably tell you she drove away, then you ask Duncan quietly to come down here.’

  Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Duncan! I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll have to tell him first. It’d be too much of a shock to play the trick on him. Then, when he comes…I’ll explain what I want.’

  ‘Can I take Cindy?’ she asked.

  ‘It’d look natural, yes.’