An Unholy Whiff of Death

by Joyce Cato

  Monica, however, felt no such sense of release. Instead, she wandered away, her mind whirling.

  Sean Gregson thrust his chin out belligerently. ‘Yeah, I nearly decked the prat. So what?’ He’d been folding down his stall when two coppers had come and all but dragged him into the fortune-teller’s tent. ‘I don’t deny it. He was messing my Linda about.’

  Jason looked at the man in front of him, accurately pigeon-holing him. Hard working. Not over-bright. Probably good-hearted. ‘I see. And in what way, exactly, was he messing her about?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘Two-timing her, wasn’t he?’ Sean said aggressively. ‘With some bird over Banbury way. I told her, but she wouldn’t listen. Said she was going to marry him. Hah!’ Sean snorted.

  ‘Tell me about this fight,’ Jason said patiently.

  Sean sneered. He was sitting in a chair in front of the two police officers, looking more miffed than guilty. ‘T’weren’t no fight. Not what anyone would call a real fight anyways,’ he said disgustedly. ‘I never hit him or nothin’. Just told him to lay off my Linda. He just sort of blubbed and went all weird.’

  Jason’s eyes flashed. ‘Weird? What do you mean?’

  Sean, for the first time, looked a bit shamefaced. He stared down at his bare, hairy arms hanging limply between his jeans-clad legs and shrugged. ‘Well, it was when I sort of grabbed him, by the lapels, like,’ he began, as the silence dragged on his nerves. ‘The prat was wearing a suit. I ask you. And, well, he suddenly went weird. He went white as a sheet, the sissy, and sort of grabbed my hand.’ He looked up, then quickly away again.

  Jason slowly leaned forward. ‘Mr Gregson, think carefully,’ he said, with such gravity that the mechanic blinked nervously. ‘Looking back, do you think he was worried about something he had in his jacket pocket? Up here, at the top,’ Jason patted his own inside jacket pocket, saw Gregson follow his movements, and then watched as the other man’s face suddenly lit up.

  ‘You know, now that you mention it, yeah. I think he might’ve been. I’ve been wondering about that; I wondered if he thought I was gonna try and grab his wallet, or summat.’

  Jason nodded. He glanced at Flora to make sure that she’d also picked up the significance of it. She had. So Gordon Trenning still had the capsule on him when Sean Gregson had started threatening him. He noted the time the witnesses said the fight had started. Of necessity, the details weren’t exact, but they were slowly and surely piecing together a picture of Gordon Trenning’s movements that afternoon. Now they knew that the scientist had come to the fete with the deadly capsule in his top pocket. It was still there when Gregson had cornered him. No wonder he’d gone pale! If Gregson had broken the glass capsule, they’d probably both have breathed in the gas and died.

  And the capsule must have been planted in the rose by 3p.m., when the judging started. Some time in between, he must have handed it over to his accomplice.

  But who? And when?

  ‘Here, can I go now?’ Sean complained belligerently.

  Jason glanced at him. ‘Is your daughter here today, Mr Gregson?’

  ‘No she bleedin’ ain’t. She’s working, see? You ain’t laying nothin’ on her. I didn’t kill her boyfriend, no matter how it looks,’ he added, a shade of real fear in his tone now.

  No, Jason thought. I don’t think you did either. But he could be wrong. Killers, he’d learned, were like those boxes of liquorice sweets you could buy. They came in all sorts.

  ‘Yes, you can go for now, Mr Gregson,’ he sighed wearily. ‘But please don’t leave the country without informing your local police station.’

  Sean snorted. ‘The last time I left the country was to go on one of them package holidays to Spain. I did nothing but sit on the loo because of something in the water, and get burned by the damned sun. It was Bournemouth for us after that.’

  Flora bit her lip to stop herself laughing, and, still moaning about ‘bloody beriberi’, Sean Gregson exited in high dudgeon.

  Jason shook his head. ‘Well, that’s—’

  ‘Sir!’ Brian Gilwiddy rushed in, his red hair plastered to his hot, sticky face. ‘We’ve found the murder weapon, sir. It’s a bloody great mallet!’

  A few minutes later, Jason and Flora were in the field at the back of the tea tent with a SOCO man knelt down in front of them, watching him work. As Gilwiddy had said, they were looking at a hefty, wooden-handled mallet, the iron head of which was tainted with an ominous, sticky red substance.

  ‘No doubt about it?’ Jason asked quietly, just to be sure.

  ‘No sir. The doc confirms the wound to the head corresponds perfectly.’

  Jason nodded and started to walk back to the interrogation tent. ‘Any idea where it came from, Gilwiddy?’ he asked the carrot-topped young constable who’d accompanied them.

  ‘Well, sir, I think we should talk to a man called Ernie Gant. He seems to be the handy-man and general fixer-upper around here.’

  ‘Right. Let’s have him in then.’

  By the time they’d walked back to the fortune-teller’s tent, an ambulance had drawn up to the flower show tent, and the sheeted body of James Davies was being removed. It had brought an aghast, general silence over the whole field.

  Jason sighed.

  Ernie Gant looked scared. As he walked into the tent he was as reluctant as a Christian walking into an arena full of lions. He looked nervously from the good-looking copper in a suit, to the pretty, dark-haired Flora. He wasn’t sure which one scared him the most.

  ‘Please, sit down, Mr Gant,’ Jason said gently, for some reason feeling in a compassionate mood.

  Ernie did so. He turned scared, cow-like brown eyes to Jason.

  ‘Everyone tells me you’re the Mr Fix-it around here,’ Jason smiled. ‘That’s a lot of hard work, I bet, what with all these tents and stalls and things.’

  Ernie very nearly managed a smile. ‘Ah, well. It’s for the village. Got to have a bit of community spirit, ain’t ya?’

  Jason nodded. ‘Not much of it about nowadays, unfortunately. Tell me, do you have to use a mallet? A big one?’

  Ernie paled. ‘Yeah,’ he admitted reluctantly, sensing trouble. His throat was suddenly bone dry.

  ‘When was the last time you used it?’

  Ernie licked his lips nervously. ‘Can’t remember,’ he mumbled.

  Jason looked at him for a few moments, and then had a brainwave. ‘Flora, why don’t you ask Mrs Gant to come in? If I remember rightly, she’s in the tea tent with Mrs Davies.’

  Flora, surprised, but not about to second-guess his tactics, nodded and left. And Jason knew he’d done the right thing the moment Vera Gant stalked in. Ernie looked at her like a drowning man looked at an approaching lifeboat.

  ‘Mrs Gant. Perhaps you can help us?’ Jason said mildly.

  ‘What are you doing to my Ernie?’ Vera demanded, stomping up to her spouse and laying a hand possessively on his shoulder. Almost smugly now, Ernie turned to look at Jason. Get past her, if you can, he seemed to be saying.

  ‘Nothing, I assure you, Mrs Gant,’ Jason said mildly. ‘But he seems to be having trouble remembering the last time he used the mallet. The one he needed to hammer in the tent pegs.’

  Vera’s fierce expression lightened as she looked down at her husband. ‘You daft bugger,’ she said affectionately. ‘It were in the tea tent, just before Wendy and the others left. Don’t you remember that poor old soul who tripped over the tent peg?’

  ‘Oh, right! Course it was,’ Ernie said, and between them they competed to tell Jason all about it. Flora took notes with burgeoning admiration. No doubt about it, her superior was a dab hand at using psychology. When they were finished, Jason turned to Vera. ‘Now, Mrs Gant, please think carefully. Was the tea tent left unattended for any period of time after your husband left the mallet there?’

  ‘No, course not,’ she said at once. And then instantly looked stricken. ‘Well, I did … er … have to go to the back of the tent once or twice.’


  Jason gazed at her blankly for a second, then twigged. ‘Oh, you mean to visit the ladies?’

  ‘Yes. But I weren’t gone long,’ Vera insisted quickly. ‘And there weren’t no customers waiting when I got back, neither,’ she said ferociously.

  Jason smiled a little bleakly. ‘No, I’m sure there weren’t. Thank you.’

  Ernie rose ponderously to his feet, and reached out touchingly to take his wife’s hand in his own.

  ‘Oh, er, Mr Gant,’ Jason added, as they turned to walk out. ‘I want you to go with Constable Gilwiddy here. He’s going to show you a mallet. I want you to tell him whether or not it’s yours.’

  ‘T’ain’t his mallet,’ Vera said at once. ‘All the tools belong to the social club. Ernie just looks after them.’

  ‘I see,’ Jason said, very nearly cheering her on; it wasn’t often you saw such wifely devotion these days. ‘But you will recognize it, if you see it, won’t you, Mr Gant?’

  ‘Course he will,’ Vera snapped. ‘He ain’t simple!’

  When the couple had left, Flora burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it.

  Jason grinned back at her. ‘Marvellous, aren’t they?’ he agreed mildly. ‘Well at least we have a murder weapon now.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Flora agreed. ‘But everyone seems to know that Ernie is the man with the tools, and anyone and their mother probably saw this woman take a tumble. Or heard about it afterwards.’

  ‘And figured out that it was a good bet that Ernie must have left the mallet in the tea tent area,’ he followed her line of reasoning easily.

  ‘Then all they’d have to do is keep an eye out for Mrs Gant to abandon her post for a few minutes,’ Flora took it up.

  ‘And hey presto, slip inside, find it, and you’ve got yourself a handy little murder weapon,’ Jason said. ‘No. Wait a minute. Our killer could hardly have gone about lugging a dirty great mallet with him. Someone would have been bound to notice. He must have taken it straight around to the back and hidden it there, which means definite pre-meditation.’

  ‘And then lured Gordon Trenning around there on some pretext or other,’ Flora concluded.

  ‘So. What have we got?’ Jason ran over the scenario so far. ‘James Davies died first, almost certainly as a mistake, in place of Ross Ferris. Trenning is later lured around to the back of the tent and killed by someone, most likely his accomplice, in order to keep him from talking. And it’s possible that he was killed whilst the flower show judging was actually in progress. Carole Anne said she saw Trenning go around the back of the tent after Sir Hugh had called for the judges. The question is how much longer after was it? She didn’t seem to know. Ten minutes? A half an hour?’

  ‘But that lets off all the people in the flower tent as a candidate for his murder,’ Flora said, exasperatedly. ‘But they’re still the most likely suspects to have planted the capsule. Since Sir Hugh was seen sniffing the rose after the tent had been cleared of the general public, it has to have been either Sir Hugh or one of the other judges who killed the vicar.’

  Jason sighed. ‘Perhaps Trenning went to the back of the tent not twice, but three times? The first two times he was spotted by Carole Anne, but not the third time.’ But he was already shaking his head as he spoke.

  ‘Doesn’t seem likely, does it, sir?’ Flora pointed out miserably.

  ‘No. It doesn’t,’ Jason concurred. ‘Which keeps bringing us back to the idea of two different killers. And yet, that doesn’t make sense either.’ He rubbed a hand wearily through his hair. ‘OK, who’s next on the interview list?’ he asked flatly.

  Flora checked her list. ‘Er, Her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess of Fulcome, sir,’ she said uncertainly.

  Jason groaned. That was just what he needed.

  CHAPTER 16

  Daphne Cadge-Hampton nodded curtly to Jason, cast Flora a thoughtful glance, then lowered herself gingerly onto the chair. It creaked loudly.

  Jason fought back an urge to apologize to the grande dame for the makeshift nature of the tent, and instead smiled briefly. ‘Your Ladyship. Just one or two questions.’

  Daphne inclined her head. Her hair, which had been up in some sort of a chignon, was fast coming loose and sending little twirling tendrils of grey hair falling down around her face, giving her a rather rakish quality.

  ‘Did you see anyone near the rose stand, and specifically the Peace entry, before the judging started, Your Ladyship?’ Jason began pleasantly.

  ‘Only Sir Hugh, who could never resist ’em,’ Daphne responded gruffly. ‘He had a good whiff as the tent was being cleared of spectators.’

  Jason nodded. ‘Anyone else?’

  Daphne smiled. ‘No.’

  She’s lying, Jason thought instantly. He wasn’t sure why he thought so, just that he did.

  ‘I see,’ he said, making his disapproval clear.

  Daphne’s smile grew wider.

  ‘Do you think many people noticed Sir Hugh’s enthusiasm for the rose?’ he asked next. If he could just get a feel about what it was that she was trying to hide then he might discover where best to start probing in earnest.

  Daphne shrugged. ‘Probably. He made some comment or other about them being his favourite.’

  Jason felt a slight twinge as she said this. Was it a hint? If so, what exactly was she trying to tell him? Don’t say Sir Hugh was the intended target after all!

  ‘I see,’ he repeated blandly.

  Daphne shifted a little on her seat. She looked tired, despite her bravado, and he suddenly felt a shade ashamed of himself. She was an old lady after all. Nevertheless, she was definitely trying to keep something back from him, whilst at the same time, leading him in another direction, he thought, stiffening his shoulders.

  ‘Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill James?’ he tried next.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about Ross Ferris?’

  ‘Why should he want to kill James?’ she asked, eyes twinkling.

  Jason grinned. She was a game old bird, he had to hand it to her; he’d walked right into that one.

  ‘No,’ he said patiently, ‘I meant, can you think of anyone who might want to kill Mr Ferris? He was due to judge the roses this year, you know. Not the Reverend Davies.’

  Daphne’s face seemed to close in on itself for a moment, then she shrugged. ‘I daresay you can find scores of people who wanted to do in that atrocious little twerp,’ she said finally.

  ‘Yourself included?’

  Daphne smiled. ‘Not specifically. I’m probably the only one whose toes he hasn’t managed to tread on,’ she added, with a bark of truly amused laughter. ‘Probably because I’ve not got anything that he wants. Still, I suppose I might have thought of knocking him off as a sort of public duty,’ she mused in her extremely upper crust accent, her head cocked mischievously to one side in mock contemplation. ‘As a favour to my fellow man, as it were. Noblesse oblige and all that bilge.’

  Jason grinned again. She certainly knew something that she wasn’t telling, and he was experienced enough to know that he was never going to get it out of her. For form’s sake, however, he asked mildly, ‘Did you have any dealings with Dr Gordon Trenning?’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Daphne said briskly, allowing herself to look majestically bored and then getting ponderously to her feet. ‘That all?’ It was, of course, more of a command than a question.

  Jason nodded ruefully. But as he watched her go, his eyes narrowed ominously. He didn’t appreciate being taken for a ride. Even such a classy ride as the one he’d just been given.

  Carole Anne noticed that the bottom gates were being opened to let out those people who had been cleared as free to go, and who had arrived in cars, and she quickly made her way down there, heading straight to the Linacres’ low-slung sports car. It was a deep red in colour – a real classic. And thus, of course, went very well with blondes.

  And as she stood looking down at the car, a sudden image came to her of car shows, where scantily clad women drap
ed themselves over bonnets whilst photographers snapped away. It was all a bit naff now, of course, and couldn’t even really be regarded as retro, but to a man like Marc Linacre, who was obviously of the older generation, he just might find a pretty girl draped over his car, trés nostalgique.

  Doubtfully, Carole Anne looked around, but for once luck was with her. Only a few cars remained, and she glanced anxiously behind her at the nearly empty field, reassuring herself that all the action was still over by the tents. Gawkers and gossipers were paying no attention at all to the bottom end of the field. So why not? Carole Anne looked down at her blouse, tied in a knot above her midriff, and chewed her lip nervously. She was wearing a flesh-coloured bra underneath, so she wouldn’t really be nude. But it would be dead easy to slip off her blouse and arrange herself across the bonnet as if she were.

  Nevertheless, she felt a twinge of unease. Whenever she thought about being photographed, she’d always assumed it would be in a proper studio, with everyone being professional and hardly anyone even bothering to look at her. She’d read that all the top models went about at work half naked, and nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to them, because they were all in the business, and to them it was just like a secretary going to the office to type memos.

  But this was a bit different. Suppose someone other than Marc saw her? But then, just rounding the pavilion, the distinguished figure of the photographer suddenly caught her eye, and the decision was made for her. Visions of being the new Olivia Gee flooded her head.

  What he’d done once, for her, he could do again!

  Telling herself not to be such a chicken, and before she could change her mind, Carole Anne untied her blouse, slipped it off her shoulders, hoisted herself up onto the hood (which was hot! – owww!) and leaned back on one elbow. With frantic haste she made sure that her hair was falling forward over her shoulders and covering her bra. Rather distressingly, she felt her skin beginning to adhere damply to the paintwork.

  Then Marc was walking towards her, reaching into his trouser pockets for his keys. She smiled. A rippling breeze, as if in cahoots, suddenly rustled the leaves in the hedge behind her, and gently moved her hair. She was just about to make a frantic move with her hands to make sure the breeze hadn’t moved her hair too much, when, behind Marc, she saw the familiar dark head of Angela Linacre.