Murder in the Cotswolds (The Sheriff Chick Charleston Mysteries Book 5)

by A B Guthrie

  Charleston pointed a finger at him. “You have given reasons for coming here, Mr. Witt. What were your reasons for leaving the United States?”

  “Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side, of course. Why did I leave America? To come to England, naturally. I’ve told you the why of that. Any more questions in that direction, and I stand mute, or should I say ‘sit mute’? You are venturing too far afield.”

  “All right then, to the immediate subject. Did you kill Oliver Smith?”

  “From being far afield, you turn to nonsense. Of course I didn’t kill him. Didn’t want to and didn’t do it.”

  “Do you have any idea who did?”

  “None at all. That’s your department.”

  “Your brother says you want him to sell out and throw in with you.”

  “That’s right, and to the best of my knowledge it’s not criminal. He hasn’t enough opportunity here. I’d like him to realize himself. I want the two of us to live closer than an ocean apart. Is that such a sinful wish, Mr. Charleston?”

  “Skip it. Where were you, what did you do on the evening and night of the murder?”

  “I reported all that earlier.”

  “Report it again.”

  “Beginning when?”

  “When you last saw Mr. Smith.”

  “That would be at dinner Monday night, when I last saw him alive.”

  “Go on.”

  “We dined at the inn that evening, the five of us—the Posts, Smith, and my wife and I.”

  “Did you note anything unusual in your companions?”

  “Not really. Smith seemed preoccupied, but then he often was.”

  “Afterwards?”

  “We broke up. The Posts went to their room, and we to ours. Smith said he had some business to attend to.”

  “What business?”

  “The Lord knows.”

  “He went to the bar later on. Did you know that?”

  “Not until the next day, by hearsay. But it was not out of character. He liked a solitary and meditative drink before bedtime. That much I know of him.”

  “This one seems not to have been very solitary or meditative, either. Did you know he helped subdue a drunk?”

  “Not until afterwards, again by hearsay.”

  Charleston nodded and thought a minute. “So we have you and Mrs. Witt in your room. Early to go to bed, wasn’t it?”

  “Too early, of course. My wife had a book she wanted to finish, and I involved myself with a chess problem. Do you play chess, Mr. Charleston?”

  “Not if I can avoid it. You spent the evening until bedtime that way. Then what?”

  “Aren’t you invading the privacy of the bedroom, sir?”

  “Omit the intimacies, if any. Did you hear anything, anything at all during the time you were there, anything that suggested violence or trouble?”

  “Not one thing.”

  “And yet there was a fight in the bar.”

  “Our room is some distance away from the bar, and on a different floor. I doubt we would have heard any noises suggesting a fracas even if we hadn’t been immersed in our own interests.”

  “And nothing during the night? You didn’t get up and leave the room? You weren’t aroused by any sound?”

  “No on all counts. It was not until seven o’clock in the morning, my usual time of getting up, that I left what the romantics call dreamland.”

  Charleston turned from him to Inspector Perkins. “I think that’s all, unless Inspector Perkins has more questions.”

  Perkins answered, “No more.”

  Witt rose, smiling again. “Good day, gentlemen. Thanks for your enlightenment.”

  Perkins asked, “Enlightenment?”

  “Into the ways of the constabulary.” He walked out, confident as ever. Goodman went with him to find Mrs. Witt.

  “Satisfied?” Perkins asked of Charleston.

  “One slippery customer, and he may know more than he admitted, but I can’t see him as a killer.”

  “No.” Perkins opened the door for fresh air, then came back and lighted his pipe, thinking as he did so that the second act canceled the first. No matter. He wanted a smoke.

  Mrs. Witt came into the room with Goodman. She looked around the room, her eyes wide and inquiring, and said in a subdued voice that struck Perkins as musical, “Good afternoon. Shall I sit here?”

  She had on a blue dress that matched the blue of her eyes. It seemed loose-fitting, yet where it touched her, it clung as if caressing the curves. Her hair appeared to have the shine of the sun in it. A small woman she surely was, small and tidy and good-smelling. A woman well put together. “Yes, do sit down,” he said as his eyes ran over her. “Just a few questions we need to ask.”

  “I’ll be happy to answer if I can.” She gave a little, uncertain smile, like that of a child in need of assurance.

  “Don’t be anxious,” Perkins hurried to say. “We have to go through routines.”

  She did appear almost childlike, no matter her perhaps thirty years, childlike and delicate, with the young expression of trust and innocence that nevertheless was a challenge. Perkins tried to think professionally, to ignore the stirring in his breeches.

  “It was kind of you to question the others first,” she said. He had the feeling she was talking to him alone. “You gave me time to get my thoughts in order.” Her dress was drawn up a bit now she was seated, displaying part of a slender leg.

  “Mr. Charleston is doing the questioning today,” he said. “Your fellow American.” He hoped he caught a look of disappointment.

  “And fellow Montanan, at least in the broad sense,” Charleston said, no doubt to put her at ease. “I’ll not ask you your whereabouts on the night of the murder, Mrs. Witt. You answered that question earlier.” He smiled, then went on. “None of you have very solid alibis, by the way. The women were with their husbands, and the husbands were with their wives, and where’s the real proof either way?”

  “I can imagine it would be troublesome.”

  “Now we’re trying to find out all we can about Mr. Smith. Someone had reason to do away with him. What reason? What person? Can you help us at all there?”

  “I can’t see how. No reason occurs to me.” She made a small, helpless gesture. “All I know is I’m not guilty. That’s truth. That’s gospel, if you wish.” Her smile asked assent. Behind it, her teeth were white and even.

  “All right,” Charleston said. “Now, Mrs. Witt, we know that some of you and some of the staff didn’t like Mr. Smith. At least one of your group hated him. Why, Mrs. Witt?”

  Her eyes came to Perkins in appeal. “I don’t know that I can explain. Have you asked them?”

  “We have, with limited success.”

  “My husband rather liked him, so that adds up to his being not much of a suspect.”

  “What were your feelings about him?”

  For an instant she seemed uncertain. Her eyes went to Perkins. “I guess nothing much. I was neutral.” She straightened her shoulders. “That’s it exactly, I was neutral.”

  “That sounds as if your companions were not.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t mean that. I just meant I had no particular feelings one way or the other. And I understand my husband. He hasn’t time for pettiness. His mind is always full of other things. You could say he’s all business. He’s a planner. No time to be petty.”

  “All business. No time for anything but, well, schemes, ways to make money?”

  A slender hand came up in protest. “That’s harsh, Mr. Charleston, but in the best sense, yes, he’s a schemer.”

  “You weren’t at the inquest.”

  “No, and I don’t think that matters. I’m just not morbid.”

  “You’re right. It’s not significant. Thanks for talking with us, Mrs. Witt. No more questions today, unless Inspector Perkins wants to ask some.”

  Perkins said, catching and holding her eyes, “Are you sure you can’t help us more, Mrs. Witt?”<
br />
  “I don’t see how.”

  “Be sure, Mrs. Witt. Be sure. We’d hate to find you knew more than you told us.”

  “Please,” she said. Her eyes were pleading. “There’s nothing more to say. Don’t accuse me, Inspector.”

  “Accuse you? I just thought perhaps you’d overlooked something.”

  She smiled a sort of sad smile. “Yes, Inspector.” She rose, stood for a moment, said, “Goodbye, gentlemen,” and went out the door.

  “You seemed to think she knew more than she admitted,” Charleston said to Perkins then.

  Perkins knew he squirmed and stopped it. “I just wasn’t positive. And you still suspect the three men were involved in some graft, some kind of roguery?”

  “A suspicion.”

  “But nothing really to do with our case?”

  “I doubt it. Has headquarters reported anything from the American end?”

  “Not yet. Pretty early, I’d say, even if Hawley got right to it. What’re you doing tonight?”

  “I’m going to have dinner with my wife, if she’ll still speak to me.”

  “Me, I’ve got to report to headquarters yet.”

  “So goodnight, Fred. Goodnight, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant Goodman waved a hand and answered, “Wish I had a wife to go to, even if she wouldn’t talk to me.”

  A wife to go home to, Perkins thought. A woman to have. He moved restlessly. And leisure to enjoy her, with no time pressing him. All these interviews, and what had been the good of them? Questions and answers and no results, and here it was the fourth day. The case might as well be in the hands of that Simple Simon, Doggett. And where was he, by the way? Hawley would rejoice at their failure. He’d be quick to seize on anything that might argue for a change of investigators.

  He rose to his feet. “Let’s get the bloody hell out of here, Sergeant.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After Chick and Perkins left her that morning, Geeta set out for Mr. Ebersole’s store. She thought she looked good in her tweeds. It was still cool enough for them, though the sky was unclouded.

  She felt the moist air on her face. It made her skin feel fresh and young, as if every wrinkle were smoothing out. Unlike Montana, she thought, feeling disloyal, where wind and aridity dried out the skin and made hair hard to manage.

  An antique shop she hadn’t visited stood just across the street from Ebersole’s, and she dropped in there for a minute to inquire about flow-blue. No luck, as she had expected.

  At the store she said, “Good morning, Mr. Ebersole.” He was arranging fruit in the front, wearing his black suspenders and white shirt. A man was stocking shelves in the rear.

  “Well, Mrs. Charleston, it’s a pleasure to see you,” he answered. “Some more of that good French wine?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ebersole, after a while.” She gave him her smile. “Do you have time to talk this morning?”

  “Plenty of time. I even had time to stand still and look out the windows and watch people passing. I saw you entering the antique shop across the way.”

  “I was looking for china, flow-blue china. I can’t seem to find much of it, and what there is is so expensive.” She drew a breath. “But I really came to finish our talk about the Hawthornes.” She went on to say, “It surprises me that you know my name.”

  He smiled his old man’s smile. “It shouldn’t. In the real tourist season, with crowds in the village, I wouldn’t have known. But in the slack season we take note, especially of women good to look at.”

  She returned his smile and waited.

  He backed up to a stand of vegetables and rested against it. It struck her that he was tired and maybe not well. “But perhaps you’d rather tell me another time?”

  “Oh, no, no. I’m all right. You said you were interested in your ancestry, and I told you about the Hawthornes, the old Hawthornes. You could go to Scotland to inquire.”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t. We’re here on vacation, my husband and I, and the time is nearly up.”

  “I see. Then there’s old Mr. Steele here in the village. He knew them and might be able to tell you more.”

  “I’ve seen him.”

  Mr. Ebersole shook his head.

  “But you mentioned a Hawthorne woman from a later time.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Can you tell me more? Were they related?”

  “That I wouldn’t know. I doubt it. She lived here just a few years and kept pretty much to herself.”

  A customer came in, and the man in the rear came forward to wait on him. Mr. Ebersole looked on with little apparent interest. He shifted against the vegetable display and breathed out a sighing breath.

  Should she question him further? Geeta asked herself. He looked tired to death, but he waited for her to speak.

  “You knew her?” she dared to ask.

  “Not to say knew,” he answered. “She used to come into the shop, buy what she wanted, and take her leave, with no time to visit or even say hello. She rented a little flat somewhere in the village. Not much money, I gathered, and no close friends I knew of.”

  She felt pushy, asking more questions, but perhaps she had only one or two more. “Didn’t she ever marry?”

  “Yes. Married one of the Smiths from around here.”

  “Were there children?”

  “One. A baby boy, as I recall.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “The whole family disappeared. Dropped from sight. No one seemed to know where, and no one seemed to care.”

  “And that was the last of them?”

  “We thought so for a long time, that is if we thought about them at all. You know, time goes by and memories are short, and very few in the village would have remembered them. They might have had some dim recollection if reminded.”

  Mr. Ebersole sighed and waited for breath. “About four years ago she returned to the Cotswolds, to Lower Beechwood or just outside it, to a big farm. Quite a holding it was, owned by her sister, a Mrs. Huntley.”

  He was awfully pale now, and Geeta wished he would not try to go on.

  “The sister was a widow, and she was rich. She owned the estate and had other possessions, and they lived, so I’ve heard, like wealthy people. Going to London to shop and all that.” He shook his head as if in slow wonder at the doings of the rich. “It’s my idea that Mrs. Huntley supported her sister all along, at least as far as her husband would permit. Then, when her husband died, she invited the sister to live with her.”

  “Happy ending,” Geeta said, hoping Mr. Ebersole was through.

  He caught his breath and continued, almost in a whisper, “Not so happy. Here, about two years ago, Mrs. Huntley died, leaving everything to her sister. Then, almost exactly a year later, Mrs. Smith herself died. The son, Tom Smith, inherited. He’s about twenty-two years old.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ebersole, that’s enough. All I wanted to know. Don’t you think you’d better rest?”

  He made a little wave with one hand. “Not all,” he said. “Just the other day, maybe last week it was, word of trouble got around. Trouble over the property. Someone was laying claim to part of it. Or that was the report.”

  With the last words Mr. Ebersole’s body started to slant. She caught him before he could fall. She called out, “Please help.”

  The assistant, done with the customer, hurried to them. “Office in back. Couch there,” he told her. Together they took Mr. Ebersole to the office and laid him down. “I’m all right,” he was whispering. “All right.”

  “Brandy?” Geeta asked the helper. “Spirits somewhere?”

  The man went to a desk, opened it, and said “Scotch?”

  “My husband would prescribe it.”

  He poured a measure and brought it over and held it to Mr. Ebersole’s lips, but the old man shook his head, took the glass in his hand, and swallowed the whisky in a gulp. After a minute he let out a satisfied “Ah.”

  From the front of the store someone cal
led. Mr. Ebersole’s assistant said, “I’ll be right back,” and left the office.

  “Don’t need him now,” Mr. Ebersole said, turning his head toward Geeta. He managed a smile. “Thanks for catching me. Don’t like to bounce.”

  “Do you want more whisky?”

  “One’s enough.” His hand went to his throat. “Did you unbutton my collar?”

  “It seemed best.”

  “Woman’s touch.”

  “You don’t need to talk, Mr. Ebersole. Just rest.”

  The assistant looked in the door, nodded and disappeared.

  “Nothing to worry about. Just a little spell. I get them sometimes. Age, you know.”

  “You shouldn’t be working.”

  “Now, now, my dear. No work and I’m dead. How are you spending the time?”

  “I find things to do.”

  “While your man’s sleuthing, eh? What do you find?”

  “I’m interested in old things, not just old, but things I like. Antiques.”

  “Seen anything?” Mr. Ebersole sat up slowly.

  “Lots of things. Furniture too heavy to take with us and too expensive besides. But my great disappointment is that flow-blue. I could take a few smaller pieces with us without trouble. But all I really found was one beautiful big platter, too big and too expensive. One shop told me American dealers were buying it all up.”

  “Flow-blue,” he said, his eyes distant. “In my day it was just blue and white china. I remember. I remember.” He put his thumbs under his suspenders, his fingers on his thin stomach, and was silent.

  She said, “I’ll keep looking. Maybe I’ll get lucky. I love the way the cobalt blue penetrates, like a blue shadow on the other side. I have a few pieces.”

  She fell silent, too, thinking about it.

  Into the silence he said, not in self-pity, “I’m an old man.” She waited. “Old, but I believe I have my wits about me.”

  “I’ll speak for your wits.”

  As he spoke, he seemed to be questioning himself. “But is it age, is it the mark of age, to act on impulse, to decide without thinking?” His eyes, clouded by questions, lifted to her and asked for an answer.

  Too many subjects, she thought. Too many concerns. Smith and Smith again. One Smith dead, the other alive. Smiths and flow-blue, and flow-blue and Smiths. And here was an old man, a gentle old man, wondering about his age and his mind.