by Joyce Cato
Unless, of course, Trenning was killed earlier on and then dumped here. No, that would never do. You couldn’t go lugging a body about and not be spotted in a field this crowded. Besides, the murder had only just happened.
‘Has there always been someone in this tent?’ he asked, and seeing Vera’s puzzled look, added patiently, ‘since it’s been set up and open for business, I mean. Has there always been someone here, inside?’
‘Of course,’ Vera said, as if he were a moron of the first order. ‘It’s the tea tent. What’s going on?’ she added abruptly. She could almost hear the wheels turning in the copper’s brain. She always felt nervous around men who looked as good in a suit as this one did. With his perfect haircut and quiet, give-away-nothing face, he was like a foreign species to Vera. And she didn’t half feel funny when he looked at her. As if he could see right through her.
‘So, what’s the problem, eh?’ Once again John Clarke’s loud and cheerful voice interrupted Jason’s thoughts as he came into the tent, followed by the inimitable Mrs Dinwiddy.
Then Jason’s eyes widened at the sight of the figure of the woman coming in behind them both. For a second, he wondered if he was hallucinating.
The first thing he noticed was the amazing gown. It looked like something Queen Victoria could have worn, mainly because it was something that Queen Victoria could have worn. It was certainly the right age and style. Then his gaze went to the huge diamond necklace, hung around a very scrawny, baggy neck. His gaze rose to the face of the woman herself, and met eyes that would have put lasers to shame. This time it was Jason who felt himself stiffening his backbone and squaring his shoulders.
She beheld Jason for a long, silent moment.
He was peripherally aware of John Clarke competently and cheerfully attending to Wendy Davies, but he was unable to take his eyes off the old woman. Slowly, she moved forward. ‘How de do?’ she said, her voice so upper crust it would cut glass. ‘I’m Daphne Cadge-Hampton.’
Jason nodded. ‘Chief Inspector Dury, madam.’
‘Your Ladyship.’
‘Pardon?’
Daphne smiled beatifically at him. ‘I’m the Dower Countess of Fulcome. You call me “Your Ladyship”,’ she explained helpfully, only a twinkle in her eyes letting him in on the fact that she thought such protocol to be a jolly old joke.
Jason stared at her, wondering for an instant if she was pulling his leg, then realized that she wasn’t, and steadfastly refused to blush, bluster, or act the subservient fool.
‘Of course. Your Ladyship,’ he repeated coolly.
Daphne’s eyes flickered in … was it disappointment? Or fear? Perhaps a hint of respect. Annoyance? It was impossible to tell, but he’d certainly made some kind of an impression on her.
Jason felt that little tug, that nebulous sensation that always alerted him when he was on to something. He smiled. ‘Do you have anything to tell me, Your Ladyship?’ he asked quietly.
Daphne grunted, then abruptly turned away and walked, leaning on a slender silver and ebony cane, towards Wendy.
‘She should be allowed home,’ Daphne said gruffly, and both Vera and Mrs Dinwiddy cast triumphant glances at Jason. No doubt they were used to seeing the countess’s word as law, and expected him to respond immediately to it; it instantly niggled him.
‘I’d rather Mrs Davies stayed available for questioning,’ he said stiffly, then realized he wasn’t being fair. ‘But only if the doctor, and Mrs Davies herself feel that she’s up to it,’ he added quickly.
Wendy Davies, suddenly thrust into coming to some sort of a decision, made weak, demurring noises. ‘Oh, I don’t mind, really,’ she murmured. ‘I feel quite all right.’
She didn’t look all right, Jason thought sympathetically, and glanced at John Clarke.
‘Any of you ladies have a little snifter of anything?’ he asked prosaically, but he was looking mainly at the countess. Daphne smiled at him approvingly and reached into the voluminous bronze folds of her skirts for a craftily stitched secret inside pocket and bought out a silver brandy flask.
John unscrewed it, filled the little silver cup-cum-top with brandy and handed it to his patient.
Wendy obediently drank it with a little shudder.
‘Do you want to go home, duck?’ he asked bracingly.
Wendy shook her head. ‘No, no, I’m fine, really I am,’ she said again, more firmly this time.
Vera sighed. ‘Brave little thing,’ she muttered, turning away.
Daphne shook her head. ‘She should be home,’ she said sharply. Couldn’t they see that she’d had enough? And she didn’t like the sharp-eyed, no-nonsense look in the young policeman’s eye. He was obviously a man who knew what was what and, in her experience, that sort of thing invariably meant trouble.
John got up and walked over to Jason. ‘I think she’ll be fine, but can you leave off the questioning for a little while?’
Jason nodded. It wasn’t, in truth, much to ask, despite the fact that the spouse of the murder victim was usually high up on the list of suspects. Besides, he had plenty of other witnesses that he wanted to question first.
‘Fine.’ He pulled the doctor to one side. ‘Tell me, what do you know about the Davies couple?’
The doctor shot him a quick, shrewd look, and sighed. ‘Nothing that’s going to help you, I’m afraid. James wasn’t one of those stick-your-nose in, holier-than-thou types that get people’s backs up. Neither was he a sneaky quick-grope-of-the-choir-boys type. And their marriage seemed to be steady and happy. Certainly there was no hanky-panky, on either one’s part, or you can be sure the whole village, down to Miss Simpkins’s cat, would know about it.’
Jason bit back a smile. Whatever else he was getting, he was sure that John Clarke was giving him an honest opinion.
‘He was a decent enough sort of chap. Put his money where his mouth was,’ the doctor added fairly. ‘I often found him visiting my patients when they were down. And he knew how to make himself useful, giving lifts and things to those without cars. He was a big voice in local affairs, of course, as you’d expect, but he wasn’t the steamroller type. Unlike Ross bloody Ferris.’ John’s face darkened.
‘You don’t like this Mr Ferris, I take it?’ Jason asked, grinning.
‘You won’t find many that do,’ John said bluntly, and gave him a quick rundown on the Ferris situation and the local opinion on Ferris Labs.
‘But James,’ John finished, ‘was well liked. Well respected too. He and his poor wife suffered a bit of a tragedy earlier this year. Lost their little boy to meningitis. A terrible thing.’ John shook his head. ‘Mrs Davies called me out late one night. Snow was bloody awful. James was giving last rites, or whatever, to some old duck with bad legs in a village a few miles away. They thought young Tommy just had a cold. It often seems that way, with meningitis. But Wendy got worried. A mother’s instinct, I suppose. Course, I called the ambulance in right away, but… .’
The doctor shrugged fatalistically. ‘Of course, a lot of the villagers muttered about it being down to having the lab nearby, poisoning the water, the air, what have you. And whilst I don’t like having it here either, there was nothing suspicious about poor little Tommy’s death. It was meningitis, plain and simple. Still, that didn’t stop a lot of folks blaming the lad’s death on the lab.’
Jason, who’d gone a little pale, looked across sympathetically at Wendy. First her son; now her husband. ‘Perhaps she should be at home,’ he said dubiously.
John glanced over and shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure. If she went home now, to a home that’ll never have her son or husband in it again …’ he shook his head. ‘I think she’ll feel better here, surrounded by friends and people for now.’
Jason bowed to his superior judgement.
‘So there’s nobody you can think of who bore a grudge against James, then?’ he prompted. ‘Dr Trenning, perhaps?’ he added cunningly.
John shook his head. ‘I doubt that they’d have had much to do wit
h each other, don’t you? I mean, what would they have in common? And as for anything else – I know what you’re thinking. Vicars are only human too. He might have strayed, if he’d been ultra-careful about it. So might have had someone’s husband coming after him, or what have you. But I honestly don’t think you’ll find anything of that sort going on with either James or Wendy.’
Jason sighed. He had a feeling that he wouldn’t either. So why was James Davies dead? And who had killed Gordon Trenning? He thanked the doctor and walked outside into the afternoon sunshine.
It was now getting on for five. The slow, painstaking process of elimination was taking place, and already about twenty or so people, who’d seen nothing, knew nothing, and heard nothing had been questioned and allowed to leave. Jason sighed and started adding to his memo list.
Who was killed first, James or Gordon Trenning? From what Dr Clarke had said, it seemed likely the vicar had died first, but he couldn’t take that for granted. He’d have to have a word with the MO and the SOCO boys when they were finished, but it seemed logical that James had died first.
Who’d noticed Gordon Trenning’s movements and had he been seen with anybody? Maybe quarrelling?
Money. Who benefitted?
As he wrote and thought, and went through the usual police procedures in his mind, he still had that niggling, worrying feeling that all of this was going to be a waste of time.
If Gordon Trenning had planted the capsule himself, why was he then killed and by whom? The only one who would want to avenge James’s death by killing Trenning would be Wendy Davies. But that pre-supposed that she knew that it was Trenning who had made and planted the capsule in the first place. So far, there was no evidence that anybody at the fete knew what Trenning had been doing.
Besides, Wendy Davies, after being escorted from the flower show tent, would have been fussed over and constantly watched by her two companions. What chance would she then have had to go wild and bash the scientist over the head with a blunt instrument? No, this still wasn’t making any kind of sense.
So, what if Trenning had made the capsule for someone else, as he’d previously been speculating. That meant that he had probably handed it over to his accomplice at some point during the fete. The big question there was, who had he given it to, and why had he been so willing to implicate himself in murder? He must have known that the very complicated nature of the capsule’s construction would point the finger straight at him. Unless, of course, he’d intended to retrieve the capsule after the murder before the police arrived on the scene, but had been killed himself before he could do so.
Or might he have been blackmailed into making it?
Jason sighed. He knew that he didn’t have anything like enough information yet to even start exploring all the various possibilities. As usual, he was jumping the gun.
He snapped the notebook shut and headed for the temporary incident room. Time to start questioning in earnest.
Jason usually liked this part of a job. It was when he found out what everybody else knew and he didn’t. What would they tell him, what would they lie about, and what would they try to conceal?
And one of those witnesses would be Monica Noble.
He shook his head and entered the tent. It would definitely be a good idea to keep his mind firmly on the job at hand.
CHAPTER 12
Carole Anne spotted Jason Dury right away, of course, and her interest quickened. Ever since he’d solved the murder of one of the flat-owning residents at her vicarage, she’d been inclined to think about him often.
Of course he was quite old. Nearly forty. But he was still a hunk. She was half tempted to re-introduce herself, but at that moment she spotted Marc Linacre, seemingly arguing with a policeman guarding the stile at the bottom of the field, and she grinned. If he was trying to sneak off home early, he could forget it. She remembered police tactics from the last time. They never let anybody off the hook until they’d asked about a zillion questions at least.
Nonchalantly, she made her way to the bottom of the field. Here a big, makeshift car park had been established, and as she watched, the photographer pointed to a low-slung sports car. Carole Anne’s eyes widened. Was that a Ferrari, maybe? Or an Aston Martin? Truth to tell, Carole Anne wasn’t sure, but it was one cool car. Obviously the man appreciated the fine things in life.
He walked towards her, shoulders slumped in defeat, and she coughed gently as he passed. Like a cornered rabbit, his head shot around and his eyes widened.
‘Look, Miss …’ he began hotly.
Carole Anne studied her green-painted nails casually. ‘The police won’t let us go for ages yet,’ she told him coolly. ‘Believe me, I know about these things. So you might as well find something to help pass the time. You can take pictures of me if you like,’ she offered brightly.
‘You are joking, right?’ As he looked at the annoying blonde pest, a slow, angry red flush suffused his face. ‘Look, why don’t you just go away? Can’t you comprehend the fact that I don’t take cute little pictures of cute little girls any more?’ The photographer began to huff and puff, like an out of control steamroller.
Carole Anne’s big blue eyes widened in alarm.
‘That episode with Olivia Gee cost me my marriage, a fortune in alimony, and it embarrassed the shit out of everyone around me. I’m through with all that.’ He was getting spectacularly red in the face by now, and his voice was rising dangerously, attracting the attention of those nearest to them. ‘I take real photographs now, can’t you understand that?’ Linacre was almost jumping up and down with impotent rage, he was so beside himself. Carole Anne had never seen a performance like it, and was fascinated and appalled in equal measure. A grown man, throwing a tantrum that a five-year-old would have found impressive. What was she supposed to do now? Go and get Graham maybe? He was probably the best one to calm him down.
‘Are you capable of getting it through your dizzy little blonde head?’ Linacre yelped patronizingly. ‘I’m an artist!’ He finally blew his top, aware that he was shouting now, but unable to stop. ‘I take artistic shots only!’ he screeched. Then he spotted his wife Angela, charging towards them through the crowd, no doubt alerted by her mate’s bellowing, and Marc felt his heart sink, all sense of power deserting him like air escaping from a deflating balloon.
Quickly, he hissed at the now open-mouthed Carole Anne, ‘Scram. Hide. Shoo. Get away from me, you—’ And with that, he quickly headed towards his wife (something he rarely did) in the hope of intercepting her and thus avoiding an almighty scene.
Carole Anne watched him go, her mouth hanging open, her heart thumping a little uncomfortably. Then she told herself grimly that she was just being lily-livered. It was just artistic temperament, right? All the great artistes were supposed to throw wobblies, weren’t they? If she was going to make it in this business, she had to grow a thicker skin!
‘All right,’ she forced herself to say nonchalantly, watching his figure disappear into the interested crowd. ‘Way to go, Markie-boy.’
Then her mind finally registered something else he’d said. Something pertinent. Namely, that he only did ‘art’ shots now. That meant nudes, even she knew that. And there was no way she could do that. Her mother would have a fit! And, she had to admit to herself, the very thought of it made her squirm.
On the other hand, if they were done really well, with nothing really showing … some talent scout might see an ‘artful’ shot of her in some posh magazine and realize that she’d look even better modelling the latest fashion designs of the great and the good. Then it would be ‘Hello!’ to Milan, Paris, New York, and Rome. The fabled cities seemed to beckon tauntingly. But was she really prepared to do what it took, and risk all…?
On the other hand, if you wanted to be one of the greats, you couldn’t be faint-hearted, right? She gulped. Hard. And so, frowning thoughtfully, Carole Anne wandered back into the midst of the field.
The football was over now. She wondered where Jason Dur
y was, and if she oughtn’t to say hello after all. The good-looking detective wouldn’t have forgotten her, she was sure. She had to remember to build self-confidence. She straightened her back. Nobody forgot Carole Anne – especially men nearing forty. Again she nodded emphatically, just to underline the point. There. That felt better.
She smiled, lifted her chin, and practised her sashaying walk. And wondered what her mother would think if they started dating.
Jason, blissfully unaware of Carole Anne’s designs on him, glanced around the small fortune-teller’s tent. There was a desk, cleared now of its crystal ball, and three chairs. He wondered if he should have left the crystal ball where it was; if things got that desperate, he might just need it.
All in all, it was barely adequate but it would have to do. He took a seat, and indicated one to Flora. ‘How are the eliminations going?’ he asked mildly.
‘Not too bad, Chief. Most people weren’t interested in the flower show tent at all, but several did have a wander around it before the judging. We’re keeping those back.’ Jason nodded. ‘Those who’ve been running their own stalls are being told to pack up and go. The fact that they’ve had to stay put in one place all afternoon fairly rules out any chances that they might have seen or heard anything interesting.’
‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘Tell Gilwiddy I want his officers on the alert for anyone who saw Dr Gordon Trenning go into the flower show tent prior to the judging. If we can place him in there, we’ll at least have a starting point. And I want those reports on the life and times of Dr Gordon Trenning as soon as they come in. They’re interviewing his friends and colleagues as we speak, right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Flora confirmed crisply. That task was being made easier by the fact that a fair few of the lab people were also at the show. Ross Ferris seemed to have made it clear that he wanted a good showing of his employees at the village’s biggest annual event. But if he’d hoped to win the natives around, Flora mused to herself, he was probably wasting his time. None of the villagers who didn’t actually work there seemed to have a good word for the place.
