by M. J. Trow
‘Was she a recluse, then?’ Henslow had been to university and a relatively good school and liked using his extensive vocabulary. It wasn’t Leighford High.
‘Certainly not,’ Hall said, swivelling a little to look at the blown-up photo of the dead woman on the screen behind him. ‘She went out for coffee most days. Maisie’s in the High Street. She took the odd walk along the Front and even on Willow Bay when the place wasn’t too crowded. She was a stalwart at the Arquebus Theatre; Treasurer on their committee.’
‘Any motive there, guv?’ Jane asked.
‘Bill?’ Hall’s superlative deflection yet again.
‘We’re looking into it,’ the DS told the smoke-filled room. ‘But Treasurer is only a figure of speech, really. I spoke to…’ he checked his notebook, ‘…a Mr Wilkes who manages the place. He said the last time she handled any money was about 1983. Ever since then, she’s just sorted out cloakroom tickets and moved things of a light nature from A to B. I think we can assume she wasn’t behind the Brinks-Mat.’
Guffaws all round.
‘Somebody,’ Hall damped the levity down, ‘went to the lengths of putting a wire across the stairs in her home. Jim Astley gives us a possible time of death as Tuesday night, somewhere between nine and twelve. Anybody been to the house that day?’
‘Tesco’s delivery late morning.’ Jane Blaisedell had been on this one. ‘Delivery man checks out. Pure as the driven himself and the old girl probably went up and down the stairs half a dozen times after he left. He was in the house for less than five minutes according to a bloke painting his house next door and helped her put the shopping away. She was in fine spirits and his known movements match his timesheet exactly.’
‘Did anybody else call?’ Hall asked. ‘Afternoon, evening?’
‘Somebody around three,’ Jane told him. ‘The near neighbour, a Mrs Grannum, heard feet on the gravel and the old girl telling whoever it was to go away because she was watching Murder She Wrote.’
‘Very apposite,’ Hall noted, wondering silently where Jessica Fletcher was at times like these. ‘But I think we’re talking after dark here. Anybody know what time Miss Winchcombe went to bed?’
Exchanged looks. Shuffles. The odd phone ringing in a corner. Nobody did. It was just one of those little ironies in life. An old spinster, living alone, with no one to mark her comings and goings. No one to mark her passing. Or was there?
‘Right,’ Hall said. ‘Jane, as of tomorrow I want you all over the late Martita Winchcombe like teenage acne. Concentrate on the niece, Fiona Elliot. I want to know the old lady’s friends and enemies – especially her enemies. Anybody she’d spoken to recently. At the theatre, in the coffee shop, anywhere. Check out this friend who shops on line for her. Above all – and Gavin, this one’s yours – I want her bank details. What’s the house worth? How much has she got stashed away – and who gets it? The dogs’ home or…’
‘The Arquebus Theatre.’
The sudden chill in the room could have left frost on the cut glasses and their companion decanter.
‘Say that again.’ Fiona Elliot was sitting bolt upright in the offices of Digby, Lassiter and Lassiter along Quay Street. She was lucky to be there at all, in that place and at that hour. It was late on Saturday afternoon and the premises were normally closed. Old Mr Lassiter refused to open up for anyone, no matter how insistent. But young Mr Lassiter was rather more of a soft touch and his social conscience had driven him, along with his vintage Daimler, in to work at an unlikely hour. The size of his fee would, of course, have to reflect this fact.
Young Mr Lassiter had a lot to live up to. His great-grandfather had founded the firm way back when, when some solicitors still accepted sides of beef in lieu of cash payment. His great-grandfather had represented Madame Fahmi, the wronged and abused wife of an Egyptian nasty into whose brain she finally placed a well-deserved bullet. His grandfather, by contrast, tried to defend one Neville Heath, an utter boundah and cad who specialised in torturing young women while pretending to be an RAF officer. Some the Lassiter family won; some it lost.
‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt, Mrs Elliot.’ Young Mr Lassiter was shaking his head. ‘Your late aunt’s will is very clear. The sale of her house at Martingale Crescent and all its contents, as well as two ISAs to the value of eighteen thousand pounds and a bank draft of nearly three hundred, all goes to the theatre which, and I quote, “I have loved all my adult life”.’
‘Outrageous,’ the woman grunted. Roger Lassiter swore he could see the steam hissing from her ears. ‘She has been coerced.’
‘Mrs Elliot.’ The young Mr Lassiter may have had a social conscience, but a pussy cat he was not. ‘This last will and testament was drawn up by my father. It is accurate, I assure you, and there was no coercion involved.’
‘Is there no codicil?’ she snapped.
‘Nothing,’ the barrister told her.
‘When is it dated?’ Fiona Elliot demanded to know.
‘The third of December, 2003,’ he told her. ‘See for yourself.’
‘I don’t doubt your end of this wretched business, Mr Lassiter. What I do doubt – highly – is that this decision was made of her own free will. You do know she should have been committed, don’t you?’
‘Well,’ Lassiter leaned back in his leather chair, sighing. ‘Which one of us can say hand on heart that we are fully sane?’
‘I can,’ she assured him, standing up suddenly. ‘Is there any way I can contest this?’
‘Legally, no,’ Lassiter said. ‘Oh, yes, you can go through the motions, of course, but it would be a delaying tactic only. Hate myself for saying it though I do, my father does not make mistakes.’
‘Well, someone has,’ Fiona Elliot growled. ‘The person who has come between me and my rightful inheritance. And let me assure you, I have ways of finding out who that person is.’
‘You have? How?’
‘That,’ the woman looked at him levelly, ‘is entirely my business. But the information will, so to speak, come from the horse’s mouth.’
Private William Pennington’s face wore an anxious look in the glare of the modelling lamp, later that night. He was an actor, Maxwell reasoned, a sensitive soul who probably worried more than most. All morning, Cardigan’s Light Brigade had waited for the off. And now, here it was, in the form of that cocky bastard Captain Nolan with his flash uniform and his leopard-skin flounces. He was supposed to be a staff officer, for God’s sake, not some clown in fancy dress.
‘So, there it is, Count.’ Maxwell dipped his brush into the white spirit and laid the theatrical private down on his back, alongside the plastic hoofs of his horse. ‘Ashley Wilkes didn’t know Gordon Goodacre very well, could think of no reason why anyone should want to kill him and had no idea who might have tampered with the ladders.’
The black and white beast twitched his left ear, his yellow eyes watching the mad old bugger closely. Why did it always smell so awful up here under the eaves? And why did he only wear that ridiculous cap when he had that wooden and fur thing in his hand? In a quiet moment, when the old bugger wasn’t there, Metternich had snuck up on that wooden thing, smelt the fur in a hopeful, meal-in-a-moment sort of way and recoiled in shock and horror as powerful chemicals tore through his nostrils. Still, the old bugger provided the hard, crunchy, scrummy stuff in his bowl every day downstairs, so he couldn’t be all bad. What was he talking about now?
‘I get the impression our Mr Wilkes is watching his back,’ Maxwell went on, sliding the magnifying glass on its stand to one side. ‘After all, he is theatre manager. The cock-up with the ladders was, technically, his fault, wasn’t it? I mean, directly or indirectly, in this great blame-culture society of ours, Mr Wilkes has a helluva lot of can to carry.’ He reached for his Southern Comfort, but the glass was empty. ‘It’s your shout, I believe.’
‘Jacquie!’ Jane Blaisedell was already in her four-by-four the next morning, ready for the off. ‘How the hell are you?’ The day was bright and
crisp, the slight hint of frost that had laced 38 Columbine’s front lawn long gone by now, leaving a seasonal dew in its wake.
‘Fishing,’ the woman told her straight.
‘Do you fancy a bevy?’ Jane asked her. ‘What with the baby and all?’
‘He’s Peter Maxwell’s, isn’t he?’ Jacquie asked, climbing in and belting up as best she could. She was belting up for two now.
‘Is that just a rhetorical question?’ Jane asked. ‘Sorry,’ she laughed. ‘Just joking. How is the old reprobate?’
‘Nosy,’ Jacquie said as Jane swung the wheel onto the main road.
‘I know. I made the mistake of giving him a lift the other night. Did he tell you?’
‘He did,’ Jacquie nodded. ‘I must say you were particularly loose of lip.’
‘Was I?’ Jane frowned. ‘You can go off people, you know. I thought I was being helpful.’
‘Jane,’ Jacquie said. ‘I love the man dearly, but he does have this habit of sticking his nose in…’
‘Somebody’ll break it for him one day,’ Jane warned. ‘Look, I don’t fancy the Ferret. How about an early lunch up at the Clarendon?’
‘Max is doing his Gary Rhodes bit in the kitchen,’ Jacquie smiled. ‘Although he calls it his Philip Harbin, whoever he was. Won’t be ready for yonks, though, so I’ll sit and watch you eat yours. Pick at the odd roaster, you know, bit of crackling, the merest suggestion of glazed carrots.’
‘What’s Max doing?’
‘Egg and chips.’
‘Ah, the delights of wedded bliss,’ Jane laughed.
‘Not exactly wedded,’ Jacquie waggled a ringless finger at her. ‘Talking of which, how’s the ever-gorgeous Michael?’
Jane beamed archly as the four-by-four shot a red light. ‘So what did you want to know about Martita Winchcombe?’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to waddle into Leighford nick,’ said Jacquie as his kitchen clock showed two-thirty, ‘make small talk about booties, matinée jackets and baby sick and somehow bring the conversation round to current murder cases. Give my colleagues some credit, Max; they wouldn’t have bought it. The last time Dave Walters saw a baby he was looking in a mirror forty-five years ago and if Henry Hall did father those three kids, he’s well and truly beyond that now. As for Gavin Henslow, he’s still a baby himself…’
‘Fair enough.’ He shovelled two eggs expertly onto her plate. ‘So what did you do?’
‘Talked to Jane Blaisedell, woman to woman, as she munched her way through the carvery at the Clarendon. And I mean the carvery. All of it. God, that woman can eat. How come she’s only five feet and a perfect ten?’
‘She’s made a pact with Lucifer,’ Maxwell told her, straight-faced. ‘Picture in the attic. No shadow. No reflection. The whole nine yards. Red sauce, I suppose?’
She nodded beatifically. ‘And brown.’
‘God save us!’
Pregnancy was a brilliant cover for delinquent behaviour and they both knew it. He sat down opposite her and watched her tuck in. ‘You didn’t have any, then? Of Jane’s lunch, I mean?’
She looked at him for a moment. ‘Nah!’ she said. It didn’t fool either of them.
‘So what did you learn?’ He delicately reached for a little salt and a glass of invigorating tap water.
‘You do realise, Max,’ she said in all earnestness, ‘that none of this – absolutely none of it – must get back to the nick. This isn’t my little old career we’re talking about – God knows I’ve risked that often enough. We’re talking about Jane’s. She’s new at Leighford and I don’t know how Henry rates her.’
‘Discretion, dear heart,’ he held the flat of his right hand over his own, ‘is my middle name. Anyway, Jane has been wonderfully indiscreet with me already.’
‘Oh?’ she arched an eyebrow in the way she’d seen him do. ‘Anything I should know about, due to my slight indisposition?’
‘She told me Martita Winchcombe was murdered.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘How are the chips?’ he said, through a mouthful of his own.
‘Divine,’ she assured him. ‘You do a mean chip, Peter Maxwell.’
‘It was touch and go when I was a lad,’ he told her, ‘whether I’d go to Cambridge or the Tante Marie. I often feel I lost my calling there somewhere.’
‘Believe me,’ she reached for her tea. ‘You didn’t.’
‘So, what of the Treasurer of the Arquebus?’
‘Tripwire across the stairs.’
‘Nasty. When?’
‘Tuesday night. Astley estimates between nine and twelve.’
‘So when Bed and George found her…’
‘She’d been dead for about twenty-four hours or just over.’
‘Rigor on its way out?’
‘I am having my lunch, Max,’ she reminded him.
‘So am I.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘I still feel like a bit of a shit shopping those two; George especially. What did you say they’ll get?’
‘Time off for good behaviour,’ Jacquie told him. ‘George has no form at all and there’ll be an army of social workers and child psychologists all over Anthony telling us how society has let him down and offering him holidays in the Seychelles, courtesy of the taxpayer. I don’t know about you, but I can’t sleep sometimes because of it.’
Maxwell tutted and shook his head. ‘So young, so cynical,’ he said. ‘And you about to be the mother of my baby.’
‘Jane’ll be coming to talk to you tomorrow.’
‘Will she? Why?’
‘You were one of the last people to talk to the old girl – at the theatre.’
‘Well, it was hardly a conversation,’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘Wait a minute – tomorrow’s Monday.’
She reached across and patted his cheek. ‘Not just a pretty face,’ she smiled, adding a little more brown sauce.
‘No, I mean…is she coming to school?’
‘Of course,’ Jacquie smiled. ‘Maximum disruption. Rattle you, annoy your colleagues, intrigue the kids. It’s what we do, we upholders of the law, Max, you know that. You wouldn’t have us any other way. Pass that ketchup, will you? I’ve still got a couple of chips left. Anything for pud?’
CHAPTER NINE
‘So,’ Dan Bartlett leaned back in the snug of the Volunteer, one of the more upmarket watering holes that Leighford now boasted as part of its Regeneration scheme. ‘Tell me about Oxford.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ Deena Harrison snorted, toying with her ciggie and Long Slow Screw. ‘I’d rather put all that behind me.’
‘Really? Some people dine out on Oxbridge. Take that Maxwell fellow, for instance. Still wears the bloody scarf, though he must have been an undergraduate when they opened the place.’
‘Max?’ Deena smiled. ‘He’s an old sweetie. It was under his auspices I tried for Oxford in the first place. Trust me, he’s one of the good guys.’
‘If you say so. I’m afraid I can’t see it, myself.’
‘Where did you go?’
Dan Bartlett extended his longish neck still further. ‘Rose Bruford,’ he said.
Deena smiled. Further comment seemed superfluous. ‘Oxford was so twelve months ago,’ she said. ‘Full of pretentious people all trying to outdo each other. Pitiful, really.’
‘Hmm,’ Bartlett nodded. ‘Rose Bruford was like that. Luvvies to a man.’
Now, if truth were told, Deena Harrison had Dan Bartlett down for a luvvie. He wore a dark crocheted scarf of ludicrous length, a long leather coat and a silly peaked cap which made him look like a cross between a poor man’s Tom Baker out of one of the far too many reincarnations of Dr Who and Roman Polanski in his Sixties heyday.
‘How long have you been at the Arquebus?’
‘Oh, my dear,’ Bartlett raised both eyebrows. ‘For ever. Whatever you do with your life, don’t end up in am dram. It’s fatal.’
‘It certainly seems to be,’ she said. ‘What with Mr Goodacre and that nice old Miss Winchcombe.’
Bartl
ett’s smile could have curdled milk. ‘My dear,’ he hissed, ‘nice has nothing to do with it. She was a venomous old toad who made the lives of several perfectly pleasant people Hell on earth. I wouldn’t have wished her dead, of course, but I can’t help thinking the curve of the stairs did us all a favour.’
He squeezed himself nearer to her on the pretext of people pushing past to the bar and that gave him a better angle to gaze at her cleavage.
‘What about Mr Goodacre?’ Deena asked, fully aware of Bartlett’s line of vision. ‘Was he horrible too?’
‘Gordon?’ Bartlett sipped his G’n’T with an elegance learned of too many play launches and not enough plays. ‘Hardly knew him. But you know yourself, theatres are dangerous places.’
His arm had crept along the back of her seat. She noticed it, let him know she’d noticed it and smiled. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘They can be. Well,’ she checked her watch, ‘I’d better be getting home.’
‘Home?’ Bartlett repeated. ‘Surely not. The night is young.’
‘Can we go on somewhere?’ she asked, looking up a little breathlessly into his mahogany tanned face.
‘What had you in mind?’ he asked. Dan Bartlett was on familiar territory. The old charm hardly ever failed. Even so, this one did seem a trifle easy to get.
She licked her lips and jutted her breasts at him, cocking her head to one side. ‘How about your place?’ she asked and ran her hand obligingly over his crotch.
Bartlett swallowed hard, thinking how lucky the girl was. ‘Er…yes. Yes, of course.’ And he necked his G’n’T in one. ‘Fancy a pizza on the way?’
‘No.’ She barely recognised it as her own voice at first. ‘No, I don’t want to go there. Not there. You can’t make me.’
