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

by A B Guthrie

  Afterward, lying there spent, she said, “Fred, do you suppose …”

  “Not until you tell me.”

  “It’s foolishness. It’s a holdover dream from when I was young. But is it too late to start over again? I think of Sherwood Anderson. He was an American author. All of a sudden one day he chucked a job he hated and said, ‘Here beginneth a new life.’ I wish I could say that.”

  “You’re young yet.”

  “Not so young, but what of it? Well, this, anyhow. If I ever found the right man, I’d say to hell with everything and go with him and not give a damn about trinkets and fashions. Then I wouldn’t be asking myself, ‘Is this all there is to it?’”

  He felt a stillness in him, an edge of surely foolish hope. Old Fred Perkins and this lovely woman. More than fifteen years of difference there, and what did he have to give her aside from the age gap, a modest income, and lonely nights while work kept him from home? And after that first marriage and virtual failure, did he want to be married again? Did he dare, old fool that he was, to commit himself? He said, “My dear,” half-choking on the words.

  Was this all there was to it? The question repeated itself in his mind while she lay silent by his side. Was this all there was to his own life away from her? Bachelor quarters and bachelor meals and no one to care about except for the casual and heated moment? The grief and scum that a detective met with, and no one at home to talk things over with, no one to come from the kitchen and kiss him when he got home from work. No welcoming voice. No snatches of song. Just his life as it was, and that was all there was to it.

  He hugged her convulsively and said, “The right man. You deserve the very best.”

  She answered, “I think I’ve found him.”

  He had that to think about after she’d left.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Charleston woke up at what he thought was an early hour, so early that few were astir yet. He heard the muted sound of an automobile, a couple of distant voices, and soft and single footsteps in the hall. When he listened, the silence sang in his ears. Then it came to him that the day was Sunday. Church bells would be ringing soon.

  Sunday, the so-called day of rest, not observed by policemen. But, for a change, he felt in no special hurry this morning, though Geeta, stirring now, looked at him and said, “You get so intent, Chick. Right now you have that hunter’s look in your face.”

  “Harsh words, girl. I’m a peaceable man.”

  “Here I was, dreaming about London. And you must have been dreaming about the case.”

  “You’ll feel better after some coffee. Shall I order some up?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Anyhow, you’ll see London tomorrow.”

  She took a long breath before she said, “You mean …?”

  “That’s what I figured all along. Two days in London for us. You can begin packing up.”

  “Oh, Chick.” Her voice trembled, all vexation gone. “I won’t let you do that. Just bow out of the case? Admit defeat? I don’t want my two days in London. They’re yours.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Please, Chick?”

  “Sorry, dear. There are important things and there are more important things.”

  She reached for him. He put his arm around her and kissed the soft mouth, thinking again how lucky he was.

  He said, “I have today left, and there’s young Tom Smith to call on.”

  “That spoiled pup.”

  “He could be guilty. He’s a lead at least, the only one I can see. Now go back to sleep.”

  “I might go to church later on. The Episcopal service, or Anglican, is mostly ceremony.”

  “And you don’t want a minister blatting at you?”

  “How did you guess?”

  He went to the bathroom, showered, shaved and got dressed. He turned to the bed to say goodbye, but she was already asleep, maybe dreaming of London.

  He took his time over breakfast and then walked outside to the incidents room, where he found Perkins and Goodman. After greetings, he asked, “Where’s Rendell? Nosing around?”

  “For what good it might do. He couldn’t get any more on the young visitor from the cigarette seller.” Perkins took a puff on his pipe and laid it aside. “You’ll be pleased to know that the high muckymuck won’t be around today.” Perkins growled in his throat. “A man of manifold duties, our superintendent. Now it’s a killing in Cheltenham.” Perkins took another puff on his pipe. “That leaves Tarvin to us.”

  “And you’ll teach him to talk.” It was Goodman speaking, derision in his voice.

  “That’s right. Lean on him. That was Hawley’s order. Lean, the devil! Not me. I’ll turn him out.”

  Charleston lighted his morning cigar, got it going properly, and asked, “What else is on the docket, Fred?”

  “For me, more waiting. Wait for the pathologist’s report, if there is one yet. Wait for word on fingerprints. Try to match them here unless they’re on record. Reports to write. Tarvin to see again. I suppose a man’s got to expect days like this.”

  “This is my last shift as helper, if I’ve been one,” Charleston said. “Today ends it, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Don’t make me think about it. I’ll get around to thanking you by and by.”

  “Not necessary, Fred. Precious little I’ve contributed.”

  Goodman broke in, “And I won’t ever see you walk into a hayfork again.”

  “’Fraid not. Now today, Fred, you being tied up, how about me and young Tom Smith? I’d like to talk to him. There’s a chance there.”

  “Good idea. Sooner we see him the better. Go on, you and Sergeant Goodman both.” He managed a smile. “I don’t want you around looking doleful.”

  Charleston took time to ask, “Any word from Washington?”

  “Not a peep out of headquarters. Nothing on the lodgers at the inn, either. Takes time, it seems. I hope Hawley isn’t sitting on it.”

  Before they went out the door, they got his parting shot. “Decorations for you both if you get a confession. Stay till you get one, eh?”

  It was just as well to have them gone, Perkins thought. Probably better. A private conversation with Rose Whaley was more likely to bring results than an official one, with Goodman sitting in the rear, taking note of everything she said. That would be enough to upset the girl, to stand in the way of a confession of her relations with Smith. Correction: her reported relations.

  The telephone rang. Pathologist’s preliminary report. Death from a fracture of the skull. Skull uncommonly thin. No other signs of violence. No symptoms of poisoning. Victim a healthy young man before death. Time of death, approximately 11 to 12 P.M. Full report to follow.

  So much for that, he thought as he hung up. No more and no less than he expected, save for the mention of a skull thinner than usual, which he had suspected.

  He was glancing at his watch when the telephone rang again. Two good sets of fingerprints, one of Doggett, the other unidentified. Nothing else but blurs. Be sure to take prints of Peter Tarvin.

  There was Hawley’s fine hand. Yes, take Tarvin’s prints. Didn’t the numbskull know they were taken as a matter of course when Tarvin was jailed?

  It was after ten-thirty. Rose would be finished in the dining room, or just about finished. He’d have to summon her himself. He smiled inwardly, thinking how dependent on Goodman he had become.

  He found her in the kitchen, lending a hand with the clean-up. She smiled at the sight of him, then sobered as he beckoned. “Yes, Inspector Perkins,” she said, coming to where he stood in the doorway.

  “Good morning, Rose. I have just a few more questions to ask. Wouldn’t it be well to come out to the cottage? Now don’t be alarmed, my dear.”

  She hung up a dish towel, her hands slow with this little task, and answered, “I can’t imagine why, but if you want to, Inspector.”

  Such a clear day, Perkins thought as they walked to the incidents room, such a lovely and innocent day. He saw
that she was seated comfortably before the desk and then went around and took his chair.

  “Rose, my dear,” he began softly, “you can see that we are alone. No one is on hand to take notes, and I promise you absolutely that nothing you say will go beyond this room unless it becomes vital to the prosecution of a murderer. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, her wide eyes fixed on him. He hated to proceed. “Now, then, Rose, I’m afraid you haven’t been altogether forthcoming when we questioned you before.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  There was nothing else for it then, and he let the words come. “We have it on good authority that you and the late Mr. Smith were intimate.”

  Her chin thrust out. “I found him dead, if that’s intimate. I told you that.”

  “Just that, and nothing more. What took place before you found him? That’s the question. It’s best that you tell me.”

  Her hand were working in her lap. Perkins had an absurd impulse to hold them. “I know it’s rough, girl. So many things are, but we surmount them and go on. Please tell me about yourself and Mr. Smith.”

  “You said you had it on good authority. On whose authority, I want to know?” Her expression, as well as the words, demanded an answer.

  “I can’t tell you. That would be betraying a confidence, and then you yourself would doubt me. But I keep my promises. You can trust me.”

  Her hands were still working. Out of a wooden face she said, “He raped me.”

  “He raped you?”

  “Took advantage of me. That’s better.”

  “And how did that happen?”

  Her words were stiff but distinct, each one slow, almost as if she were writing. “He asked me to bring tea to his room, asking would I do it in person. As soon as I put the tray on the table, he grabbed me and threw me on the bed. I don’t have to tell you the rest, only he turned gentle afterwards and offered me five pounds.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “I thought I deserved it, seeing how rough I was used. I was so mixed up.”

  “I can understand that,” Perkins told her. “But there’s more, isn’t there, Rose?”

  The wooden face lost its rigidity. A gush of tears came from her eyes. He went to the bathroom and came back with a cold cloth and said, “Here, girl.”

  “I’m so ashamed,” she said through the cloth. “What will people think of me? What will Auntie say?”

  “They won’t learn from me. I’ve promised you that. So you went back to him? You were about to say that. How many times, Rose?”

  “I don’t know. Three or four.”

  “Tell me why.”

  She was shaking her head and still crying. “I couldn’t stand it if it got known.”

  “Was it that you needed money, Rose?”

  “No. I refused to take anything.”

  “After lying with him again?”

  A nod was her answer. He waited for more. When she spoke, it was haltingly, like a child owning up to a fib. “I don’t know all the why of it. I’m so sinful. I’m so wicked. He made me that way.”

  “And did you kill him for it?”

  An eye looked over the wet cloth. “Kill him! Don’t ask such a crazy thing.”

  She took the cloth from her face and went on, “So why did I do what I did? I didn’t know the ways of men and women, and I was …”

  He spoke for her. “Fascinated.”

  “Yes, and I didn’t know there was such wicked pleasure in the world, such awful pleasure.” She shook herself as if to shake off remembrance. Her voice went sad. “I can’t hold up my head anymore, not around here.”

  “Is that the end of the story, Rose, or have you more to tell me?”

  A flare of anger came and went out with her words. “You expect more! More? What more? More than this disgrace?”

  “Rose,” Perkins said, speaking kindly, “you aren’t the only one who ever broke the rules. Believe me when I say that. If what you did is such a dreadful sin, then thousands, millions of us, are doomed. I don’t think you’re much of a sinner, my dear, and I don’t think you’re ruined. So smile if you can. Face the world. It forgives and forgets and goes its own way. Be brave and go yours.”

  So much for his role as comforter, he thought. If there was anything more, he had to turn off the sympathy.

  “Now, Rose,” he said, “if there’s anything else, I want to know it. Come clean. That’s best for you.”

  Her voice rose. “Come clean, when I feel so dirty!”

  “You want us to spot the murderer, don’t you?”

  “What good would that do? It won’t bring him back.”

  “As a civilized people …”

  She leaped to her feet. “Be civilized yourself!”

  A choking sob came out of her. She ran to the door, crying out. “There’s nothing else. I’ve owned up to my sins! Isn’t that enough for you?”

  She wrenched the door open and slammed it behind her.

  Missed again, he told himself, sighing. He’d muffed it. She must know more, considering, but how could he get her to tell?

  Rendell dodged in. “No local record of Smith’s marriage or the birth of a son,” he announced.

  “County records. Gloucester?”

  “Nothing there, either. Sorry. Now what?”

  When Perkins didn’t answer, he added, “I thought I’d get myself something to eat, sir. Care to join me?”

  Perkins thought he might as well. What the hell? He could dig in his mind as well over a meal as here.

  At the pub, feeling suddenly hungry, he asked for a steak and kidney pie. Rendell ordered a plowman’s. The pie was uncommonly good, made on the premises, not in a factory. So let the pie ease his mind, as Rendell would say. Let it reveal what he couldn’t find. Let it make him forget Hawley and his career and all that. The other customers swam in his eyes, floating dim in the current of his thought.

  Rendell waked him by asking, “All through, Inspector?”

  As they got up to go, Perkins said, “I have to see the man Tarvin. Will you bring him from the jail? Here’s the key.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The constable was prompt. Perkins had barely had time to seat himself in the incidents room when Rendell came in with Tarvin.

  Perkins nodded and said, “Sit down, Mr. Tarvin.”

  “And hear some phony charge, I suppose?”

  “Have you anything to add to what you said yesterday? Anything to correct, now that you’ve had opportunity to think?”

  “Not one blasted thing. I spoke the truth and all of it.”

  “I believe you. There is no charge. You may go—with my apologies.”

  “What happened to your wolf? Did you cage him?”

  “If you mean Superintendent Hawley, he’s busy on another case. And by the way, he’s not my wolf.”

  Tarvin got to his feet. “I have a feeling I owe you the apology.” He leaned over the desk and offered his hand. “No hard feelings, not against you.”

  “Thanks. Constable Rendell will return you your things.”

  When that was done, Tarvin went out, managing a whistle.

  Perkins looked at his watch and said aloud, “Wonder what’s happening to Charleston and Goodman? They ought to be back before long.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Rendell answered. Of course he didn’t know. Foolish question in the first place. Rendell had no idea where or why they’d gone.

  The phone rang, and Rendell listened. Perkins said “Yes” into it. Then, “Inspector Perkins here.” A silence. “Yes, I let him go. No, I didn’t lean on him.” Silence. “No, I didn’t take his prints. Why? Goddamnit, because we already had them. Goodman took them when he jailed him. Routine, as you ought to know. Charge Tarvin with what we had? With only that, for Christ’s sweet sake!” Perkins’s voice got hotter as he spoke. “Look, Hawley, I know nothing could please you more than for me to make a fool of myself. But goddamnit, Hawley, I won’t. You make a bloody fool of yourself trying
to make a fool out of me. You’ve got a mean mind and nothing much in the way of brains, and to hell with you.” A harder bite, an ice-cold one, came into his voice. “You do that, Hawley, and tell the chief constable to expect my resignation along with the reasons for it. Oh, yes, and have a nice day yourself.”

  As he hung up the phone, settling it with a sort of cold decisiveness, Rendell gave a low whistle not meant to be heard.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was almost twilight when Goodman pulled up in front of the Smith place for the second time that day. Ahead of them a parked car shone in the headlights. “Seems our bird’s lit,” he said. “Chase half over England trying to find him, wait while we grow calluses on our butts, and here the rooster is.” There was tired disgust in his voice. “Drives a Bentley. That figures.”

  “Come on then,” Charleston told him.

  They walked to the door. The manservant they had talked to earlier in the day answered their ring. He was an older man with a touch of gray in his hair. He had told them that morning that Mr. Smith was out for the day and suggested a few places he might possibly be found.

  After they had turned away, Goodman said, “It beats me, him playing bloody butler to a twenty-two-year-old bloke.” But neither now nor when they had seen him that morning did the man indicate that he found his position irksome.

  “Yes, gentlemen,” the man said. “Now if you’ll just wait in the hall. And might I have your names, please?”

  “Certainly.” Goodman gave them to him.

  The man disappeared without comment, then reappeared, saying, “This way, gentlemen.”

  He led the way into a large living room. Charleston took quick note of a green carpet and white walls with small splashes of yellow. The blank face of an oversized television set stared at him. Near it was a stereo. A sideboard too big for its function stood against the facing wall. The other furniture was massive too and, to him, tackily ornate. What was it, late Victorian, that Geeta called this swollen stuff?

  The man called their names and withdrew. A boy lounged in an overstuffed chair and didn’t get up. A young and rather pretty girl sat on a sofa, her hands smoothing the wrinkles in her red dress. Both young people looked rather steamy.