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

by A B Guthrie

  “Well,” the boy said, “what is it?”

  Goodman asked, “Your name is Tom Smith?”

  “Why ask me if you know it?”

  “Simple. To make sure you’re the one we want to talk to. We had a time chasing you down. Your man out there had a number of ideas, all wrong, about where you might be.”

  “He’s not a good guesser. Now so far as I know it’s not against the law to take your girl to the beach.”

  “Not lately anyhow. But again, you are Tom Smith?”

  “That’s me. So what?”

  “So now we’ll seat ourselves as you so kindly didn’t ask.”

  Goodman pulled up a chair for Charleston and sat on the sofa by the girl. He was showing another side of himself, a competent, take-charge side ordinarily restrained in deference to Inspector Perkins.

  “What have I done now?” Smith asked. “Had a wreck? Stolen a pig? Contributed to delinquency? Spit it out.”

  “My colleague has some questions to ask you,” Goodman told him.

  Smith turned his head. “Yes. Sure. The famed Yankee sheriff who rides to the rescue. Ask away, man.”

  Charleston sat forward. “We have reason to think you were in Upper Beechwood last Monday night, the night your father, Oliver C. Smith, was murdered.”

  “Where’d you get that? Reading tea leaves?”

  The girl stirred and said, “Monday night!” and fell silent, her brow wrinkled.

  “So, on the basis of reports, we assume that you were in Upper Beechwood that night,” Charleston went on. “For what purpose? Tell us that.”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  The girl muttered, not as if to support him, “I didn’t think he had a girl in Upper Beechwood.” She added as if to herself, “Not there.”

  Charleston held up his hand, “Just a minute, please, miss.” He switched to the boy. “One theory is that you flew into a rage and stuck a knife in your father. He was your father. Right?”

  The boy cried out, “Don’t you speak of my father. Father, my arse! I wouldn’t know him if I saw him and if I did, I’d spit on him.”

  “Why?”

  “He deserted my mother. He deserted me. He went to America and made a lot of money, but did we ever see any of it? Not one bloody penny.”

  “What were you doing in Upper Beechwood, then?”

  “I tell you I wasn’t there.”

  “Where were you?”

  The girl broke in again. “You weren’t at home and you weren’t with me—I’d like to know what.” She settled back in a quiet ferment.

  “Mr. Smith,” Charleston said, “there are other questions. We understand that your father tried to claim a part of your inheritance?”

  “He did, the son of a bitch! He sent a London solicitor nosing around. I put the run on him. What my mother left is mine, all mine, and no one’s entitled to one bloody bit of it.”

  “Not if he’s dead.”

  Almost unheard, the girl was talking to herself.

  “It must have been that Laura.”

  Charleston went on, “So there’s another motive, Mr. Smith. You wanted him dead.”

  “That’s different from killing him.”

  “But you hated him enough to kill him?”

  “I’m just glad he’s dead. That’s all.”

  “I still want to know where you were Monday night.”

  “I’ll tell you,” the girl burst out of her ferment. “He wasn’t at home, and he wasn’t with me.” Her eyes were on Charleston. “You see, we get together every night. At least we’re supposed to. We’re going steady. We’ve even talked about marriage.” As if the decision were hers alone, she added, “I haven’t made up my mind yet.” She would, though, and in the boy’s favor, Charleston thought, or in favor of the money.

  “I see,” he said.

  “But last Monday night—I’ll never forget it—I waited and waited, and I tried to ring him, and he didn’t come by or telephone, not until eleven o’clock, and I put a flea in his ear when he did and hung up the phone.”

  “You’re sure of the time?”

  “As sure as I am of my own name. I watched every minute crawl by. It was right at eleven.”

  “What did you do then, Mr. Smith?”

  “When?”

  “After she put that flea in your ear?”

  “That’s not important. My own affair.”

  “I’ll tell you what he did,” the girl spoke up. “He got drunk. After eleven o’clock he called me every quarter of an hour. Eleven-fifteen, eleven-thirty, fifteen minutes to midnight. He made his last call at twelve o’clock. He could hardly speak his own name.”

  “I wish you’d shut up,” the boy told her. Then to Charleston, “There’s no law I know of against a man taking a drink. Once in a while he takes one too many. There’s no law against that, either.”

  Charleston glanced at Goodman, knowing what was in his mind. They were barking up the wrong tree, if the girl spoke the truth.

  The girl couldn’t quit talking. “What was he doing before eleven o’clock, that’s my question.” Her eyes went to Charleston. “Mr. Tom Smith is such a loving man. Why don’t you ask some of his girlfriends?”

  Smith said, “You’re crazy.”

  “Crazy, is it? Just say where you were Monday night. I’ve asked before, and I’ll keep on asking. Maybe in time you’ll quit being a clam.”

  “That’s nobody’s business but mine.”

  “I’ll tell you something, Mr. Tom Smith. Two can play at your game. I’ll be pussycat and you keep being tom. That’s funny. Spell tom with a capital letter nor not, it means the same thing. Yes indeed. I’m not such an old bag. I can find another friend easy enough.”

  Smith came to his feet, his face flushed, her anger kindling his own. “You’ll wish you hadn’t. Now will you shut up?”

  “No, I won’t shut up. You’d throttle me, is that it?” Her voice was taunting. “What a nice revenge. Just like you, too.”

  “Not a bit of it. I’d save you for myself, that is if I still wanted you. It’s your new boyfriend who’d wish he never set eyes on you.”

  “Oh my. Oh my.”

  Charleston broke in, “All right, Smith. Where were you Monday night?”

  “Everybody’s business, eh? All right. I was playing cards and losing my shirt.” Smith sat down again.

  The girl asked, “Where?”

  “At Paul’s Place.”

  “Low company, and you were drinking, too.”

  “What if I was? Sure, I was drinking, drinking until they wouldn’t serve me any more. Had the nerve to say I’d had enough. I quit the game then. No drink, no play, I told them, and the devil with them. If I wanted a drink, they couldn’t stop me. I had plenty of whisky at home.”

  “So you showed them, yeah, you got back at them.” The girl was jeering.

  “Lay off, will you? Just lay off.”

  “And then you drove home drunk.”

  “Of course I drove home. No accident. I drive just as well with a few drinks as I do cold sober.”

  “That’s what the man said before he hit the tree.”

  “I got here, didn’t I?”

  “Hold it now, Smith,” Charleston told him. “You came home and drank and then what?”

  “I must have passed out, if you have to know.”

  Goodman broke in, “Was your man here?”

  “Must have been.”

  “Get him in here.”

  The girl got up and pulled a cord near the window. A bell sounded distantly, and almost before it had ceased, the manservant appeared and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “These are policemen,” Smith told him. “A couple of nosy gentlemen. Be nice and polite, Farney, and tell them what they want to know, even if it’s my bathroom habits.”

  Farney turned, facing Charleston, who asked, “Do you remember Monday night, the night of the twenty-first?”

  “Quite well, sir.”

  “And why is that?”

&n
bsp; Farney hesitated, until Smith called out, “Spill it, Farney. Spill it.”

  Farney’s gaze went from Smith’s face to Charleston’s. “Mr. Smith came home a bit before eleven.”

  “Drunk?”

  “I would hesitate to say he was strictly sober, sir.”

  “Then what?”

  “He asked for a bottle, a glass and some water, and I put them on a table in front of him.”

  “And?”

  “He began drinking. Then he asked for the phone, and I brought it to him. It’s movable and plugs in there by the sofa.”

  “Go on.”

  “I left him then, thinking there was no more I could do. But I was worried.” He turned to Smith. “You’ll excuse me, sir, but I had to listen and keep a watch on you.”

  “Sure. Sure. Go on. Tell the man.”

  Farney said, looking toward Smith, “I heard your voice several times sir. I assumed you were using the telephone. Then, some time afterwards, I heard the sound of a fall. I hurried in. You were lying in a heap on the floor.”

  Charleston prodded him. “Say it, if he was. Drunk and unconscious.”

  “Not quite, sir. He was a bit difficult. He didn’t want to move or be moved. I had some difficulty in getting his shoes off. Then I put a pillow under his head and threw a coverlet over him against the cold. He lay there all night. I know. I kept peeking in.”

  Goodman got to his feet. “He’s not worth it, Farney,” he said. “Let him go to hell in his own basket.”

  Farney asked, “Is that all?” When no one answered, he withdrew.

  Charleston rose and stepped to the door with Goodman. Sounds of argument followed them into the hall. “So you have a new pastime, do you?” the girl was asking. “Gambling, and did you lose your pants, too?”

  “I said to knock it off, knock it off, knock it off …”

  Goodman closed the door, and they walked to the car. “How’d you like to be married to her?” he asked.

  “Or have him for a husband? Evens up.”

  “High time we got back. No telling what’s happened.” He put the car in gear. “We might as well have stayed home, or almost.”

  “Think so?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sitting alone in the incidents room, Perkins felt a kind of relief. No more holding back before the sneering allusions, the half-open threats of one Superintendent Cecil Hawley. No more provocations from that tight little mouth he’d so often wanted to batter. If worst came to worst, he supposed he could find something to do, enough to supplement the small pension he’d earned. More likely, though, his superiors, mindful of his services, would think to let him down easy by putting him on a desk. Same difference, though. He’d resign.

  So be it. Yet maybe the chief constable would listen to his reasons. He would cling to that possibility without counting on it much. Hawley sucked up to the chief, and the chief was getting old and set in his opinions. Yet there was that slim chance.

  It was early evening by now. So where in God’s name were Charleston and Goodman? Not that it mattered much, unless they’d come on to something sure-fire. Ah, forget that. Good to be alone and let his mind wander. Rendell had left sometime earlier, tired of this waiting.

  He lighted his pipe and let his thoughts drift, and in half an hour Charleston and Goodman came in. “Sorry, sir,” Goodman said. “We had a time running Smith down. Then we didn’t prove anything except he’s out of the picture. Two witnesses to prove it. He was a hot prospect, too.” Goodman shook his head ruefully. “It’s a letdown, kind of.”

  “Part of the business, that is, eliminating possibilities. What else?”

  Charleston answered him. “Oh, he’s Oliver Smith’s son all right, though he hates to admit it, but his time on Monday night is accounted for. He stood up his girlfriend—gambling, so he said. Then he went home, drank more, and passed out along about midnight. We have his manservant’s word for that.”

  “That’s all? Really?”

  “Allowing for a wild hunch I won’t mention.”

  He might as well tell them, Perkins thought. Better tell them right off, the simple facts without self-pity. He said, “We’re off this job, all of us.”

  He saw Goodman’s face. He heard Goodman say, “Christ!”

  He continued, making his tone easy, “A replacement for me will come in the morning. Until then I suppose I’m in charge, at least nominally.”

  “So you told the bastard off?” Goodman asked.

  “I had that satisfaction, Sergeant. I rather indulged myself.”

  “I knew you’d do it some time, but …” Goodman’s voice trailed off.

  Out of a small twist of thought, he said, “So, Chick, you aren’t alone. It’s my last day, too.” His smile, he knew, had no amusement in it.

  “Yeah. Not a productive day for either of us.”

  “It got me fired. Hawley would call that productive.”

  “And nothing else?”

  “Wrong, but it doesn’t matter now. I brought Rose Whaley in here for more questions. That was before I told Hawley off. And, don’t you know, Rose finally confessed that she and Oliver Smith had been intimate. He as good as raped her the first time, but she went back, fascinated, and learned to like it.”

  Goodman let out a mere “Oh.”

  Of a sudden Charleston snapped his fingers and said, “That’s interesting.”

  “Wait a minute now. At the end I insisted that Rose tell me more if she knew anything. She got indignant. She said I had shamed her enough. She got hysterical and flung herself out the door. Something secret there, but how can we make her tell?”

  “Could you get her in here again?”

  “I suppose. You want more hysterics?”

  “Just get her in, if you will.”

  “It’s daft,” Perkins said. “But, Goodman …”

  Goodman was on his feet. He went out, saying, “I’ll bring her.”

  Perkins asked, “Now what is it?”

  “It’s a hunch. String along, Fred. Play a part. The bad cop and the good cop routine. You know it?”

  “Heard of it.”

  “Let me be a fool, if that’s the way it turns out.”

  “Never a fool, Chick, but maybe on the wrong track?”

  “Could be.”

  Perkins relighted his pipe and had time for a puff before Goodman entered with Rose. “I’m sorry, Rose. It’s annoying, I know, but Mr. Charleston wanted to see you. I told him about, well, about what you’d told me.”

  She let out a stifled cry. “But you said it was confidential!”

  “I said it would not go outside this room, and it won’t unless absolutely required. We are not gossips here, Rose. We can be trusted.”

  She folded her hands in her lap, not quite believing. She pressed her lips tight as if never to open them. Her face showed rigid control.

  Perkins nodded to Charleston, and Charleston said, “Miss Whaley, I want to be assured—I should say we want to be assured—that you have told the whole truth.”

  Through stiff lips she said, “I swear to it.”

  “And you’ve held nothing back? Nothing at all?”

  She answered with a little spurt of anger, “My God, I’ve laid myself bare, and you ask me that!”

  “I wanted to be sure before proceeding.” Charleston hitched around in his chair and said, “There’s nothing else for it then, Fred.”

  Perkins answered blindly, “It seems not.”

  “Everything points that way.” He sighed, taking his time. “The extreme nervousness when questioned. The daily attendance at church.”

  Perkins understood the reference then, understood it without understanding. He saw the girl’s hands tighten in her lap. She was as still and rigid as stone. Good tactics, he reflected. A clever ruse, shrewd if a bit dodgy. Chalk one up for Charleston then, and let him get on with this unpleasant business. It wasn’t to his own taste, though�
�be honest—he would have used it if it had occurred to him.

  “It’s not pleasant. Hateful but necessary. But there’s no choice. We have to charge Mrs. Vaughn with the murder of Oliver C. Smith.”

  Rose came out of her chair then, her face torn. She shouted, “No! No! Not Auntie!”

  “It just shows you never can tell,” Charleston said into her cries. “She’s probably been praying for forgiveness.” The girl kept shouting protests.

  Perkins thought he must be in some kind of stage play, hearing lines, saying lines of a drama he didn’t know the end of.

  “Look,” Rose said, stepping toward Charleston, “she goes to pieces when questioned. She’s just naturally nervous. She goes to church every morning. What for? She’s praying to live a little longer. And you can’t understand!”

  “I understand this much, that you’re trying to protect your aunt. It won’t work.”

  “You bloody man. You’ll kill her. She has heart trouble.”

  “Too bad.”

  “But I know Auntie didn’t kill him.”

  “You may know. We don’t. Where’s the evidence?”

  Rose bent her head and shook it back and forth, saying nothing.

  “So you haven’t got it. All right, Miss Whaley, you may go. Sergeant, will you bring in Mrs. Vaughn?”

  Neither of them moved at once. Then the girl went to her chair, collapsed in it, and said, “All right. All right.” Her voice was thin now. “You make me choose, but it’s hard, so hard.” At the end her words were a whimper. She was crying.

  Perkins thought it time to intercede. “Rose,” he said softly, “Choices are always hard. They leave regrets, and the regrets make us sad. But we have to choose, and we do, praying for the best. We have to take sides sometimes. My dear, tell us how you know Mrs. Vaughn can’t be guilty.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “You know about Mr. Smith and me?”

  “Yes, you told me.”

  In a tiny voice she began to speak in short, flat phrases, with pauses between. “I went to see him. It was that night. Afterwards. You know, after love, we were drowsing. Backs to the door. That’s how we lay. The light was on, but still we were dozing. He always left the bedside light on.” She gulped. “He said it was because he liked to look at me.” She paused then, as if for breath to go on. “This is so awful. I lied, too. I lied to get into his room. I told Auntie after work that I was tired and ready for bed.