A Shot at Nothing

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Your name is Philipa Lowe? One L in the Philipa.’

  ‘Actually it’s Evengeline Philipa Lowe. My mother’s name, the first one.’

  ‘Yes. And what are you doing here? You live…where?’

  ‘Penley. Just outside. Hawthorne Cottage, Oliver knows.’

  ‘And you came here —’

  ‘To look at the place, this morning.’ And heavens, all this had happened in one day!

  ‘The morning Clare Steadman returned.’ She nodded to herself. ‘A coincidence?’

  ‘Not entirely. She’s been out of Benfield over a week—on licence, I believe, touring around. She phoned the estate agent and heard I’d got the keys to look around the place—so she drove home. I don’t think she intended to sell it, anyway. It was all a gesture. She’s like that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You can’t tell when she’s lying and when she’s not, or even if it’s just a bit of fun or serious, or if she might even be lying to herself and really believes it—or really wants to. You know…’

  ‘Yes, I know. But you’re still here. Why didn’t you just back out, when she turned up, and drive away?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yes, I do. I was intrigued by the circumstances of the murder. Harris Steadman’s murder. Oliver had told me about it.’

  Behind my shoulder, I heard Oliver make a little sound, but he knew better than to intrude.

  ‘What, in particular, intrigued you?’

  ‘The third shot. The shot at nothing, which you’ve mentioned.’

  ‘Why did that, in particular, intrigue you?’

  ‘Because it was at nothing.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Nobody’s produced anything that was shot at,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Harris Steadman was shot at—from about five feet.’

  ‘Ah yes, but that was the second shot, the killing one.’

  ‘Clare’s second shot?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘I don’t think so. Not Clare’s. I’m certain it wasn’t. What do you think?’

  ‘I’m not here about Harris Steadman’s death.’

  ‘But both the killings are related. Harris’s and Alice Carter’s. Don’t you think so, Superintendent?’

  ‘No.’ She smiled thinly. ‘And I’m the one who’s asking the questions. May I continue?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  She flicked a glance at Oliver, a glance that said: where did you find this one?

  ‘Thank you. And why are you still intrigued?’

  ‘Because of the set-up. This lawn here, the gunroom there, the thunderstorm, the fact that only Clare could’ve done it, on the face of it, when I’m certain she didn’t.’

  ‘And why are you so certain?’

  ‘If she’d been guilty she’d have invented a second shot, and said she’d heard it, but she had to be prompted. Then she mentioned two other shots, instead of just that one. Why would she have done that, unless she was innocent? It didn’t make sense.’

  ‘There’s no necessity for you to make sense of it,’ she observed.

  Then she turned. ‘Ralph—why don’t you rustle up some tea? A big pot and four mugs.’

  Like a flash he burst into action, darting for the open French windows. It seemed that all the shotguns were now inside, but Clare hadn’t yet finished with Inspector Charlie Green and his men. ‘No—not like that. Oh, you fool, not the Remington with the Winchester. And never mind the dates. I tell you, they’re both 1901. Why can’t you listen!’ It was one continuous outpouring of anger.

  ‘Shall we sit on the edge of the terrace?’ the superintendent suggested. ‘They seem to have finished running in and out.’

  That was what we did. Neither Oliver nor I mentioned that we’d recently had tea. She continued.

  ‘Though of course, I can see’, as though there’d been no break, ‘that you would want to make some sense of it, if only for Oliver’s benefit.’

  We were sitting with our legs dangling, me with the super on one side, Oliver on the other. He leaned forward. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I’m talking to Miss Lowe. Please don’t interrupt. Wasn’t it because the third shot might have been invented as an alibi for Oliver’s benefit, as he was with her at the time?’ she asked me, smiling.

  ‘That thought crossed my mind.’

  ‘It wouldn’t please you. No. It wouldn’t please you that he needed an alibi at all.’

  I said nothing to that.

  ‘Would it?’

  ‘Sorry. Was it a question?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Well, no. It didn’t please me.’

  ‘Was that why you were so determined to look for an answer?’

  ‘I thought we’d covered that.’

  ‘Wasn’t it the main reason?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that.’ I hesitated. ‘But of course, he didn’t need an alibi.’

  ‘Didn’t he? My impression was that he did. But after all, that was an alibi only for the third shot—and it could’ve been conjured up in Clare’s active mind. It was no alibi for the second shot, the one that killed Harris.’

  ‘Now listen here…which crime are you supposed to be investigating?’

  ‘I’ve told you that I don’t answer questions. I ask them.’

  I shrugged. ‘Ask on, then.’

  ‘Why did you go to see Madame Acarti?’

  ‘I knew she was Woman Sergeant Alice Carter, and Ralph said she wanted to see me.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘No. You’ll have asked him that, surely.’

  ‘I did. He said he thought you might have some information for her.’

  ‘Well—I hadn’t. We talked a little, but to no good effect.’

  ‘You milking her for information—she milking you?’ She looked up. ‘Ah—thank you, Ralph. Put it down there. You can be mother.’

  But he was a father, I realised, shocked at the realisation. Two children, he had said, no doubt being minded for the day by friends, neighbours…and he had to go home and tell them their mother was dead! I was suddenly overcome by such a flood of grief and sympathy that I couldn’t answer the superintendent’s question. Couldn’t even remember it.

  ‘I asked’, she said severely, ‘whether you and she were swapping information.’

  ‘You could say that,’ I whispered.

  ‘You say it. What information were you reaching for, Miss Lowe?’

  Oliver’s hand touched my arm. I didn’t know whether it was a warning. If it was, I ignored it.

  ‘We were talking about women in the district who’d had a pregnancy, probably terminated, at around the time of Harris Steadman’s death.’

  She turned away to accept a cup of tea from Ralph. Clare, apparently, didn’t have mugs. She sipped it. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘You’ve remembered I don’t take sugar.’ Beyond her, Ralph mouthed: Milk and sugar? I nodded. Oliver nodded. They were handed over. The cups rattled in the saucers. I realised I’d have to be looking for a bathroom soon.

  ‘What?’ she asked over the rim of her cup. ‘What’s a pregnancy got to do with it?’

  ‘From what Clare told me, that was what their grand row was about. He wanted money from Clare to send away a woman he’d got pregnant, to have a quiet abortion.’

  ‘Did she want one—this woman?’

  ‘I don’t think her wishes were explored. I don’t think he was necessarily telling the truth. I don’t think Clare was necessarily telling the truth about Harris’s lies. I don’t know anything—not for a fact.’

  ‘And your visit to the sergeant was useless?’

  ‘Yes. Nothing serious was mentioned. Nothing that anybody eavesdropping could possibly think to be serious. Nothing that would have required me to be stabbed in the back.’

  ‘You?’ she asked gently.

  So I told her about the switched chairs. I also said that we had discussed nothing to provoke a violent response—in order to shut my mouth. And that the
fact of the knife having been taken there implied a planned attack, so it must have been provoked by some circumstance arising before I went anywhere near the tent.

  She twisted her lips at that. At no time had she been pushing me or leading me. But she didn’t like what I was saying.

  ‘And do you know what circumstance could have necessitated your death?’

  I realised then that I was to blame for Alice Carter’s death, to blame for having taken the wrong chair, to blame for having taken the danger into Alice Carter’s sphere. At that moment I found myself desperately trying to suppress a flood of hot tears. I could do no more than shake my head.

  ‘Would you say it, please?’

  ‘I can only guess that I’ve found out some information that I don’t at the moment appreciate. Some passing remark. Please. Is that all for now? Or shall I say out loud, for the benefit of your blasted tape, that the subject broke down in tears?’

  ‘Phil?’ said Oliver softly, worriedly, which really provoked them.

  The superintendent got to her feet. Ridiculously, I registered the fact that she’d left half her tea.

  Oliver had his arm round my shoulders when she paused. I looked up, the image blurred, but she didn’t wish to speak to me. ‘Oliver,’ she said, ‘you’d better not leave her side.’

  ‘I’ve got to go to the bathroom,’ I choked.

  ‘Then he’ll have to stand outside, won’t he?’

  She left. I thought miserably that she hadn’t advised me to leave the district. She had wanted me within reach. Ralph Purslowe, after a bleak grimace at Oliver, trailed miserably after her.

  Then I buried my head in Oliver’s shoulder and finally wildly wept. He bent close, my hair in his mouth. ‘You’ll feel better, Phil.’ And, bless him, he added, ‘I’ve seen big, tough men weeping.’

  After a while I straightened, put my hands to my hair, though it’s resilient and holds itself together well, sniffed, and said, ‘I’ll need to do some repair work, and I’ve left my bag in the car. I’ll have to pop back and fetch it.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and fetch it.’

  We took the longer route around the house. My BMW was even more firmly blocked in, a batch of motor bikes being arranged in front of it.

  ‘We’ll never get home,’ I said.

  ‘Glenn and his mates could get it out.’ He said this in a persuasive voice, almost wistfully.

  ‘I want to see the fireworks.’

  Which was true, though he knew it was no more than an excuse.

  But I felt we were so very near a solution, and I couldn’t walk—or drive—away from it.

  I fumbled for the keys in my slacks pocket, jingled them in my hand, and bent to the lock.

  ‘Oliver.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Oliver, look at this.’

  I was indicating the edge of the door. There were abrasions to the paintwork. I hadn’t had the car long, and I’d run up no more than about a thousand miles.

  ‘Some rotten devil’s scratched my car!’ I cried, furious.

  ‘Wait.’ He took the keys from my fingers, then he peered through the windows, walking round to make sure. ‘Nothing disturbed, that I can see.’ He crouched down on the grass and squinted underneath.

  ‘Looking for bombs?’ I asked, feeling hysterical.

  He straightened. ‘Checking for oil drips. Your brakes.’

  Then he stood over me, looking down into my face. There was more than concern in his expression, an anger, a determination.

  ‘What is it, Oliver?’

  ‘Somebody’s tried to get in your car. The old bit of bent wire trick, running it down the door gap. But the BMW’s got a sunken lock, so it didn’t work. So they went away. A rank amateur.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’

  He shook his head, not indicating a lack of understanding, but refusing to accept what he saw in it.

  ‘Open the door, Phil. Your bag’s still on the seat.’

  ‘If you think it’s safe.’

  ‘I’m sure nobody got in.’

  I opened the door. The lock operated as normal. Quickly, I hunted through my bag, but as far as I could see everything was there.

  Oliver was still watching me thoughtfully when I closed the door and locked it.

  ‘I was wrong, wasn’t I?’ He took my arm as we walked away.

  ‘In what way?’ I was completely confused.

  ‘I thought…once we could get away from here you’d be safe. But now I’m not sure. I believe…it’s the only thing I can see…I think somebody wanted to look in your bag, and the only reason for that…well, wouldn’t it be for your address?’

  I stopped in mid-stride. ‘You mean, they’d follow me?’

  ‘Anybody who’d take such a risk as stabbing a person in a wide-open field in daylight, with a thousand people around…they must be very desperate, or afraid, or completely unfeeling. If it’s that important, then they might have in mind the necessity of following you home.’

  I stood there, looking up into his face, bleak and dangerous. My voice wasn’t strong. ‘You mean this, don’t you?’

  He said nothing. We went on walking, back round the house. ‘We could go home, Oliver, if that’s what you want. If you think we ought to. And make sure nobody follows us.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting…’ Was his anger aimed at me? ‘You gave your address to the superintendent. On that lawn with the French windows open, and with God alone knows how many people within hearing, the other side of that hedge.’

  ‘Oh!’ I missed a step and nearly stumbled. ‘So what do we do?’

  I had been keenly anticipating the sunset, looking forward with pleasure to the fireworks. Now a sudden dread of the darkness was like a shiver all through me, and my skin felt tight over my cheekbones.

  ‘We try to find the truth before it gets dark.’ He didn’t sound optimistic. ‘And you, Phil—and I can’t help you with this—you’d better track back through your memory for something you’ve heard or seen or mentioned. Something that’s frightening somebody.’

  ‘A fat chance…’

  Then, without collusion, we were each silent as we found our way back to the lawn. We were within hearing distance of the house. I turned. The sun was sinking towards the west, behind the house. Another…how long?…less than an hour, and it would be sunset.

  Clare was standing on the terrace. She had found time to change, and was wearing different slacks, a blouse, and a Fair Isle cardigan. Now, prompted, I felt cooler around my shoulders.

  ‘There’s a cardigan in the car, Oliver.’

  ‘Shall we go back for it?’

  ‘No. It doesn’t matter.’

  It had to be even darker under the shroud of those trees. Those pretty lights hadn’t been lit.

  We climbed the steps to the terrace. Clare, now alone, seemed pleased with herself, comfortably complacent.

  ‘They’re all back,’ she said, a quiver in her voice from excitement. ‘All my guns. And oh—it’s so wonderful to see it again as it was. I’ve waited…’ She didn’t tell us about the waiting.

  ‘All but one,’ I reminded her.

  ‘I’ll have to start looking round for another Dame. It will have to be exactly the same model—a sliding breech job. And they’re so rare!’ That they were rare seemed to boost her. The challenge of the pursuit flushed her cheeks. Or it could have been the sun, verging into the warm end of the spectrum. Nevertheless, she crossed her arms and hugged herself.

  ‘A bathroom?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s right opposite that room I showed you. You’re staying for the fireworks, I suppose.’

  ‘That seems likely. I expect you’ll be able to watch from here.’

  ‘Well, yes. It seems the best place.’

  I paused, and turned back. ‘Did you arrange all this, Clare, from your prison cell?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She dismissed it as a trifle. ‘I wrote to Glenn…oh, he’s been simply marvellous. I knew, weeks ago, the date I’d be released. So I co
ntacted Glenn—he came to see me. Wasn’t that good of him! He agreed to fix it up. He loves organising, and I gave him a free hand with the finances. I said…I picked today. The fête, too. To fit in. I hadn’t forgotten that. Hasn’t it all turned out splendidly?’

  ‘Marred only by the small matter of a murder,’ I said quietly.

  She clamped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh lordy-me…and it’d completely slipped my mind. So much to do…How silly of me! You must think me terribly unfeeling.’

  Oh no, not unfeeling. She was packed full with bubbling emotion. The fact was, though, that it was all turned inwards, her gratification, her sorrows, her joys.

  ‘Of course not, Clare,’ I assured her. ‘Your guns…you’ve been so much involved, one way or another. Oh…there was something I wanted to ask you. This morning, you told us you’d returned here, in a hurry, because you’d heard that the estate agent had handed out your keys. Now you tell me it was all planned ages ago, including the day of your return. It contradicts itself.’

  ‘But I did.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Come back this morning because I’d heard somebody had got my keys. I’d planned it different from that—from what it’s turned out to be.’

  ‘In what way?’ I was trying to sound casual, but I was determined to tie her down to something that wasn’t hedged round and distorted by her inventive brain.

  ‘Oh…’ she said, gesturing vaguely. ‘You know. Not that stupid crush we ran into at the front. What I intended was…me to drive back here, yes, but a bit later. Give them all time to get out and around the field—when everybody had arrived. You know…’

  For once, she expected me to understand. Was there a hint of embarrassment? If so, it was alien to Clare’s personality.