Puppet for a Corpse

by Dorothy Simpson

  So that promising avenue had turned out to be a dead end, Thanet thought as he climbed into his car. And he was back to the old dilemma: suicide, or murder?

  The pendulum began to tick away in his brain again as he headed back towards the centre of town.

  It was, it wasn’t. It was, it wasn’t.

  And—she did, she didn’t. She did, she didn’t.

  19

  Wondering if he was wasting his time, Thanet set off after lunch to keep the appointment which Bentley had managed to arrange with Mrs Blaidon. It was a glorious autumn afternoon and before long he began to feel as though he had been let out on holiday. He hadn’t been in what he thought of as “proper country” for some time and now he wound down the car window to breathe in great draughts of sweet, clean air. All about him the rich landscape of Kent slumbered in the mellow warmth, satisfied that once again it had yielded up its abundance and could now lie dormant, replenishing itself with the strength necessary to bring forth next year’s harvest.

  At one point Thanet stopped the car and pulled into the side of the road, drawn by the beauty of the view. Leaning on a five-barred gate he gazed with profound satisfaction at the multi-coloured patchwork spread out before him. Fields of stubble, scorched black by the ritual purification of post-harvest fires, and meadows dotted with grazing sheep and cattle intermingled with orchards and woodlands in a satisfying natural harmony made breathtaking by the glowing colours of the autumn foliage. Along the hedgerows ripening blackberries hung in clusters and the glowing berries of hawthorn and wild rose were festooned with the fluffy white trails of the wild clematis, so aptly called Old Man’s Beard.

  Thanet plucked a handful of blackberries and ate them, their sun-ripened warmth seeming to encapsulate for him the essence of the richness about him. He had lived in Kent all his life and, although he never thought of himself as a countryman, knew that if he were ever to be uprooted from all this something in him would wither and die.

  The village of Borden was tucked away at the heart of a complex, twisting network of narrow country lanes. Thanet twice lost his way and it was with relief that he at last found it and stopped to ask for directions from an old man leaning on the tiny wicket gate of his front garden and puffing peacefully at his pipe.

  The man considered Thanet’s question, then removed his pipe in a leisurely manner. “Catchpenny Oast?” he repeated. “That’ll be Mrs Blaidon’s place.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You goes up there about half a mile,” the old man said, pointing with the stem of his pipe, “then just past the King’s Arms you turns left, and a bit further on you’ll see her sticking up above the yew hedge.”

  Presumably he was referring to the Oast house and not to its owner, thought Thanet with an inward smile as he thanked him. The tall, conical roofs of the oast houses, topped with their white cowls, are one of the most distinctive features of the Kentish landscape. Now that relatively few of them still perform their original function of drying the famous Kentish hops, many have been converted into delightful homes.

  The yew hedge surrounding Mrs Blaidon’s garden was tall and thick, immaculately clipped. Thanet parked his car at the side of the road and approached the white five-barred gate. As he unlatched it a large black-and-white cat sitting on one of the gateposts jumped down and stalked off sedately around the corner of the house, disappearing from view with a contemptuous flick of the tail.

  Catchpenny Oast was a most attractive conversion. Efforts had clearly been made to retain as far as possible the original features of the building and to ensure that any new materials were carefully matched with the old. Thanet approved of the casement windows with the traditional small square panes and the heavy old wrought-iron fittings on the bleached, weathered wood of the massive front door.

  Before he could knock, however, the cat reappeared and without a glance at Thanet returned to its perch on the gatepost.

  “Ah, there you are. Thought you’d got lost.” A woman had appeared at the corner of the house and now advanced towards him, peeling off her gardening gloves and stuffing them into the capacious pockets of her canvas apron. She put out her hand. “Inspector Thanet, I presume.”

  Dismissing the fanciful notion that the cat had informed her of his arrival Thanet shook hands, studying her with interest. Not exactly a face to launch a thousand ships, he thought, but certainly one to catch and hold the interest; long and narrow, with slightly protruding teeth and unusually penetrating brown eyes. Her greying brown hair was caught up in an undisciplined bun.

  She led him around the side of the house, removing her apron as she went. Underneath she was wearing a baggy tweed skirt, a woollen blouse and a shapeless brown cardigan held together at the front with a big safety pin.

  “We’re outside,” she said. “Lovely day, brought Mother out.”

  At the back of the house, tucked into the angle between the roundel and the rest of the house, was a little paved terrace furnished with comfortable cane chairs and a bamboo table. In the most sheltered corner, so swathed in shawls and rugs as to be almost invisible, sat an old, old lady. Two rheumy eyes gazed vacantly out across the garden. Beside her, curled up on the trailing corner of one of the rugs, slept a tabby cat and a third cat, ginger this time, raised its head lazily to survey Thanet from the cushioned comfort of one of the chairs.

  Mrs Blaidon dropped her apron on to the table and crossed to bend over her mother.

  “We’ve got a visitor, Mother,” she said loudly.

  Slowly the old lady’s eyes focused on her daughter’s face.

  “A visitor!” Mrs Blaidon repeated, even more loudly, pointing with vigorous stabs of her finger at Thanet.

  The eyes swivelled slowly to Thanet and then, in mild bewilderment, back to Mrs Blaidon, who patted her mother’s lap reassuringly before straightening up.

  “Deaf as a post,” she explained unnecessarily, mouth tucked down ruefully at the corners. “And stubborn, with it. Won’t wear a hearing aid for love nor money. Sit down,” she added abruptly.

  He did so, wondering if her curiously staccato mode of speech had come about through years of living with someone who was deaf.

  Mrs Blaidon scooped up the ginger cat and sat down on the chair it had occupied, settling it absentmindedly on her lap. It was such an habitual gesture that Thanet wondered if she was even aware that it was there.

  “Right,” she said, eyes bright with interest. “I’m bursting with curiosity. About Arnold, is it?”

  “You’ve heard about his death, then?”

  ‘Andy rang up. Hadn’t heard from him since Christmas. In a state. Won’t be hypocritical, pretend I’m sorry Arnold’s dead.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  She pulled a face. “Cold fish. Did you know him?”

  “Only by sight.”

  “If you had, you’d know what I mean. Ghastly man. Andy right, then?”

  No point in beating about the bush with this one, Thanet thought. Polite formalities would be brushed aside like so many flies. Straight to the point in as few words as possible would be the approach that Mrs Blaidon would appreciate.

  “Well?” she said impatiently. “Was he murdered or wasn’t he?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “Taking your time, aren’t you?”

  “Complications,” Thanet said, equally terse. He was disconcerted to see a gleam of amusement in her eye.

  “Don’t huff.”

  Thanet opened his mouth to deny the allegation, realised that he would be wasting his time. Instead, he grinned. “It doesn’t sound as though you’d be surprised if he had been.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why?”

  “Told you. Awful man. Never understood why Diana married him. No, not true. Desperate for a husband. Simple as that.”

  “He was the sort of man who made enemies?”

  She frowned. “Bit strong, that. Not the sort to make friends, that’s all. No warmth in him. Good doct
or, though. Loved his work, grant you that. Nothing else, though.”

  “Not even your daughter?”

  She gave a bark of laughter. “Loved her money, more likely.”

  “And Andrew?”

  Her expression softened. “Fond of him in the end. But never should have adopted, not cut out to be parents, those two.”

  “You mean, your daughter wasn’t keen on children either? Then why on earth …?”

  “Fifteen years ago things were different. If you didn’t have children … Pariahs, almost. More enlightened nowadays. Diana felt some kind of freak. Damned unfair, the woman always blamed. She really resented that, I can tell you. Adopted in self-defence, really.”

  Thanet stared at her, wondering if he had heard aright. Could he have misinterpreted that peculiar shorthand speech of hers?

  “What do you mean, that it’s unfair that the woman should always be blamed?”

  “Not her fault they couldn’t have children. His.”

  His fault. So Pettifer had been sterile. And if that were so …

  As his entire thinking about the case began to somersault Thanet pulled himself up short. This was so important he couldn’t risk misinterpretation, dared not accept as fact something which might be only a biased guess.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Diana, of course.”

  “She could have been trying to put the blame on him because she couldn’t face the fact that the fault was hers.”

  Mrs Blaidon waved her hand dismissively. “Psychological clap-trap.”

  “But I understood that she even had an operation …”

  “Blocked tubes. Soon put right. That’s when she found out. Until then, Arnold never had any tests. But when her tubes were cleared and still no patter of tiny feet … Saw the written report from the hospital myself. Sperm count non-existent, it said. Nothing you can do about that. But look here, aren’t we straying a bit? What the devil has Arnold’s sperm count got to do with his death?”

  Didn’t you know that his second wife is having a baby? Thanet wanted to say. But he didn’t. She would find out soon enough and put two and two together. As soon as he decently could he brought the conversation to a close and left.

  Pettifer had been sterile.

  Therefore he must have known that Gemma had a lover right from the very first moment she told him that she was pregnant, several months ago. And if that was so …

  Thanet felt that he was on the very brink of a completely new understanding of the case. It was as though he was looking at it through a kaleidoscope. The pattern he had seen until a few minutes ago had suddenly fragmented and now all the pieces were whirling around in meaningless gyrations. Perhaps in a little while they would begin to float down, to settle and he would see the true picture beginning to take shape.

  Meanwhile … The questions came thick and fast.

  Why, for months, had Pettifer played the role of delighted expectant father, knowing that the child could not be his?

  If he had loved Gemma as passionately as everyone seemed to think, how had he managed to conceal so effectively the jealousy he must have felt?

  And, above all, why? Why had he never, by word or implication, indicated that he knew of her infidelity?

  Thanet felt convinced that if he could only find the answer to this last question, the case would be solved.

  20

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  For the last hour Thanet had been pacing about his office like a caged bear, burning with impatience for Lineham’s return.

  Lineham looked taken aback by this greeting, as well he might.

  “In London, sir …”

  “I know you’ve been in London, man. But what took you so long?”

  “Well I had a bit of bother tracking down Mr Lee. First of all I …”

  “All right, all right.” Thanet waved away the explanations, then sat down heavily behind his desk. He was being unreasonable and he knew it. “Hell, I’m sorry Mike. I’m sure you haven’t been wasting your time. It’s just that there have been developments in the Pettifer case and I didn’t want to go home until I’d discussed them with you.”

  “Oh? What?” Lineham said eagerly.

  “All in good time. Tell me what you found out in London.”

  Lineham had gone first to the hotel. The manager had checked his records and had confirmed that, yes, Gemma had made one long-distance phone call at around ten o’clock that night. He had given Lineham the night-porter’s address and the poor man had duly been roused from his well-earned slumbers and had confirmed that although he hadn’t seen Gemma and Lee leave the hotel just after ten, he had seen them return at around 1.30 am. He had not questioned Lee’s presence as he had seen him with Gemma on a number of previous occasions and assumed he had every right to be there.

  It had then taken Lineham some time to track down Lee, whom he had finally run to earth at the rehearsals of a fringe theatre group in Putney.

  “And a pretty weird lot they were, too,” he said, eyes rounding reminiscently. “Do you know …”

  “Lee, Mike. What about Lee?”

  Lineham’s top lip curled up contemptuously. “Male-model type. The sort you see on knitting patterns. Appeals to women, I suppose. Good-looking, skin-tight trousers, shirt unbuttoned to the waist, gold medallion nestling in the hair on his chest, that sort of thing.”

  Thanet grinned. “Not your idea of masculine charm, eh, Mike?”

  Lineham ignored Thanet’s teasing. “He was still hopping mad with Mrs Pettifer.”

  “What about?”

  “Her getting him to drive over a hundred miles at night to answer a dud SOS from her husband. I gather the atmosphere on the way back to London was distinctly frosty. In fact, I have a feeling that that affair won’t be going on much longer.”

  “Gave you that impression, did he?”

  Lineham looked disgusted. “It was the way he talked about her … ‘You know what older women are,’ wink, wink. ‘They can teach you a thing or two but after that, well you’ve got to admit that their charms are somewhat faded.’ Yuk!”

  “Delightful. Anyway, I gather he confirmed her story.”

  “Oh yes, down to the last detail.”

  “What do you think, Mike, now you’ve seen him? Do you think he and Mrs Pettifer did the foul deed together?”

  “Not on your life! Honestly, sir, I don’t think that one would put his neck on the chopping block for anyone. What a nice girl like Deborah Chivers can see in him really beats me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “Even taking into account the fact that he’s an actor too? And, whatever you think of him as a person, a good one?”

  “Believe me, I’d be only too delighted to be giving a different answer. But no, I think his involvement begins and ends with his driving her down to Sturrenden and back that night.”

  “Hmm. Only, as I said, things have changed a bit since this morning. The last of our other suspects, Braintree, is now out of the running—I checked while I was waiting for you to get back and, believe me, his alibi’s cast-iron. And I learnt one very interesting fact from Pettifer’s mother-in-law by his first marriage.” Thanet stopped, took out his pipe and began to fill it.

  “Yes?”

  Mischievously, Thanet prolonged the suspense for a moment or two longer, waited until his pipe was drawing properly before dropping his bombshell.

  “Sterile?” Lineham’s face was a study. “But that means …”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, that the baby isn’t his, for a start. And that he must have known it wasn’t right from the beginning. Which means …” Lineham paused, taking in the implications.

  “… that our pillar of respectability and integrity has been lying in his teeth for months. Living a lie, in fact. And damned convincingly, too. He certainly had us fooled,” Thanet added, with a degree of bitterness.

  “And his wife, too?”


  “Ah, now that’s what I’d really like to know. Did he tell her he knew, or not?”

  “He couldn’t have, surely, sir. I can’t believe that if he had they would have been able to hide the fact that their relationship had changed from Mrs Price, for example, who was living in the same house with them all the time.”

  “And why should they bother to keep up a pretence like that, anyway? I mean, I can imagine Pettifer not wanting other people to know he’d been made a fool of—can’t you?—carrying on as though nothing had happened because he couldn’t bear to lose face. But why should she?”

  “Perhaps he threatened to divorce her if she didn’t.”

  Thanet shook his head. “It’s no good, Mike, it just doesn’t ring true. If there was collusion between them, then she really put her heart and soul into it, didn’t she? Think of the anniversary dinner. Why should she bother to put on an act like that in front of a lot of complete strangers? No, the more I think about it, the more inclined I am to believe he didn’t tell her.”

  “But why should he have, for that matter? I mean …”

  The phone rang. “It’s for you,” Thanet said, passing it to Lineham.

  “Yes? Oh, hullo, Mother. Look, is this important? It really isn’t very conven—… Oh. Oh, I see. Well, I don’t know. Louise’ll be expecting me. Yes. Yes, I do see. Yes. Well, I suppose I could. All right, I’ll call in on my way home. I’m not sure.” He glanced at his watch. “I can’t be certain.” There was irritation in his voice now. “I really can’t be sure … Say an hour, then. I’m sorry, mother, you know how it is, I just can’t be more definite than that. No, I’m not cross. Yes. Yes. See you later, then. ’Bye.” He shot an apologetic glance at Thanet. “My mother,” he said unnecessarily as he put the phone down. “A minor crisis. Do you think … Would you mind if I just made a quick call to Louise, sir?”