Miss Pink Investigates- Part Four

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘Phoebe was found in the beck.’ The tone was a warning.

  ‘On Swinburn’s land?’

  ‘Mabel would have to know.’

  ‘Mabel would protect – her – man.’ The quick retort slowed suddenly. Miss Pink glanced at the doorway. ‘Where’s Sherrel?’

  ‘Why –’ Eleanor blinked, and stood up. She went to the front room and after a moment returned. ‘She’s not there,’ she said in wonder.

  ‘Upstairs? Lavatories?’

  They both looked. Sherrel had gone.

  ‘She was listening to us,’ Miss Pink said, back in the kitchen. ‘Swinburn’s Bobby’s father. He’s the Lees’ landlord and he contributes to Bobby’s support. She’s gone to warn him. It’s logical but does it have to mean anything sinister?’

  ‘The police must know about Bobby.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Tell me, did Phoebe wear a hat?’

  ‘Always. She couldn’t stand the glare so she wore brims and she went in for amusing hats picked up on her travels. She had a sombrero and a cowboy hat and an American trooper’s cap with fur ear-flaps. Why do you ask?’

  ‘What about baseball caps?’

  ‘Not exactly, but that type, rather more up-market. The most recent one she brought back from Alaska: little animals embroidered on the front. I don’t know if she wore it though.’

  ‘Denim?’

  ‘Yes, like the blue jeans, with a pale brim. But why – oh, you found it!’

  ‘Not me but I think Bobby has, and he’s hiding the fact. Can he have found something else? And Misella – and Sherrel – they know what he’s found?’ She regarded Eleanor absently. ‘On what kind of terms were the Lees and Phoebe?’

  ‘Here we go again – but – OK, Sherrel resented her. Phoebe told the girl she was being degraded. No, she said the weekly handover was degrading. It’s a class thing; we think of it as humiliating but Sherrel and Misella wouldn’t be bothered. It really wasn’t anything to do with Phoebe anyway; she should have kept out of it.’

  ‘But that was her problem, wasn’t it.’ It was rhetorical, Miss Pink’s mind had diverged. ‘I keep getting my wires crossed. At Sunder I think Misella was trying to mislead me, insisting that the murder was the work of a stranger, but she was talking about Isa, and here we’re discussing Phoebe.’ She pondered. ‘Isa was murdered. We know that, although initially it was assumed to be an accident. Phoebe’s death was an accident according to the inquest. But was it? Her skull was fractured.’

  ‘She struck her head as she fell.’

  ‘But did she fall? You said there was no reason for her to enter the quarry. You had to contrive a reason: photographing flowers. And Swinburn could have been out that day, probably was, he’s a farmer.’ There was silence until Miss Pink resumed thoughtfully, ‘If Phoebe was murdered, there is surely a connection between the two deaths, between the two women.’

  ‘They were very different,’ Eleanor observed, herself thinking hard now, carried along. ‘The one a young, flighty baggage, the other a high-principled old lady, one secretive and dishonest, the other too frank for her own good. Maybe.’ The last added as she realized the implications of what had gone before. She ended emphatically: ‘I can’t see Jacob Swinburn being involved with Isa.’

  ‘The connection could be indirect: not directly between Isa and Swinburn but by way of someone else as a link: Isa – Gemma – Swinburn, or Walter as the link.’

  ‘You’re reaching, Melinda. It’s your criminal mind again.’

  ‘All the same: two violent deaths within four days –’

  ‘Coincidence; you might as well say that the wretched salmonella hoax was connected.’

  ‘Why not?’ Miss Pink was resentful and argumentative. ‘Who started that rumour? Swinburn? He must have hated Phoebe and she was your friend. He might have found it amusing to mention it in the pub: some reference to his being ill after he’d eaten something Mabel bought here, suggesting it was salmonella poisoning.’

  ‘You see! You have tunnel vision. How can you conceive of Jacob forging a letter from a Sussex Council? A naughty hint in the pub certainly, but that letter was correct down to the last detail.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I thought I did. No doubt with all these murders on your mind you forgot.’ Eleanor was patronizing. ‘The hoax started with a letter purporting to come from East Sussex Council and it was an excellent forgery – and you’d need a scanner and a printer.’

  Miss Pink was gaping. ‘Who has a computer?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘In Borascal? Only Martin. Walter would have one in the office of course. Are you going to suggest one of those men – of whom I’m very fond’ – stretching it a bit – ‘that one of them tried to put me out of business? That’s way over the top.’

  Miss Pink wasn’t listening. ‘The hoax,’ she intoned. ‘Phoebe’s death, Isa’s murder.’ Eleanor scowled angrily. ‘People acting oddly,’ Miss Pink continued. ‘I wonder what the police thinking is on this.’

  A man built like a sumo wrestler walked into the Fat Lamb and eyed Honeyman with contempt. For all his size the publican was smaller and softer.

  ‘You seen Dwayne Paxton?’ the newcomer grated.

  Honeyman shook his head. Dorcas, wiping the shelves, paused, studying the fellow in the mirror.

  ‘He’s not at his place, his truck’s gone and he’s not at Blind Keld.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you doing the renovating there.’

  ‘Right. I’m Birkett, Builders and Roofers. Paxton’s working for me, or he should be. Where’s he gone?’

  ‘He comes in but he don’t tell us his plans.’

  ‘He’s sleeping there. And he didn’t expect me at t’weekend, didn’t clear his traps away. There’s a sleeping bag on t’floor in t’best bedroom. He’s been there with a woman.’

  Dorcas pursed her lips and shifted bottles noisily. Birkett glanced round the bar. At three o’clock it was empty although there were a couple of parties at the tables outside. A police car cruised past slowly. The Honeymans stiffened but Birkett had his back turned.

  ‘When you see him you tell him he needn’t trouble to come back,’ he said viciously. ‘Except to collect his stuff, and that’s in the stable.’ He glowered at Honeyman. ‘Where’d he get a key to the house is what I want to know?’

  Dorcas turned. ‘Why are you asking us, Mr Birkett?’ The courtesy made it the more cutting, particularly from a woman of her age and diminutive size. He blinked in confusion.

  ‘Because he’s been using the place for his own purposes, missis, and I’m responsible for it. It’s in my charge like. How’s it going to look if the owners find out and spread it around: one of my men using their nice house? I don’t give a damn what my workers get up to in their own time – assuming it was in his own time – but he’s got his own place, why’d he not take girls there, eh?’ He was shrill with resentment.

  ‘Too near the village,’ Honeyman put in.

  ‘Who cares these days? Hell, it’s summer; they could do it –’

  Dorcas coughed forcefully. ‘I don’t care for that kind of talk –’ She stopped as the police car drew up outside. Both Honeymans were suddenly expressionless but Birkett appeared even more disgruntled, as if he were anticipating yet another problem, but a nuisance rather than trouble. His face didn’t change as Sewell walked in, the detective seeming mildly surprised at the company.

  ‘Well, Jackson, afternoon off? Skiving, is it?’

  ‘Looking for one of my men,’ Birkett growled. ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘What’ll it be then?’ Honeyman asked, straightening a drip mat absently.

  ‘Nothing for me.’ Sewell was affable. ‘I just called in to speak to Birkett here. Saw his van in the car park. We brought him back,’ he told Birkett.

  The Honeymans stared. Birkett shook his big head. ‘Brought who back?’

  ‘Young Dwayne. He’s your man, isn’t he?’ Now Sewell looked doubtful. ‘He said he was working for you.’<
br />
  ‘Not any more he isn’t. He’s fired. I told Honeyman here already.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ Sewell was firm. ‘If we take him in he’s got no choice but to go.’

  ‘You took un to Bailrigg? What’s he done?’

  ‘What did you fire him for?’

  Birkett’s temper had been seething from the start but at this point any surviving restraint broke. ‘What did – I’ll tell thee what Ah fired that randy young tup for: he’s been using my property – the one as I was renovating – as a brothel, that’s what! Why, even a packet of condoms under the’ – a loud crack as Dorcas slammed a tankard on the bar – ‘under his sleeping bag, there! But that’s not the worst of it. Isn’t it a crime to have keys cut and enter someone else’s premises? Trespass anyway.’ He paused for breath.

  ‘He didn’t tell us he took women there.’ Sewell turned lazy eyes on Honeyman who flinched. Dorcas had kicked him.

  ‘He’s young,’ she said.

  ‘But he wasn’t forthcoming about his girlfriends,’ Sewell said.

  ‘Very discreet, our Dwayne.’ Birkett’s sarcasm was venomous. ‘Like they said’ – indicating the Honeymans – ‘he weren’t one to shit on his own doorstep. So she were a village girl.’

  No one spoke. ‘Probably married,’ he added.

  Standing side by side the Honeymans couldn’t exchange glances but Ralph left the field to his mother, as if he’d received a signal.

  ‘Dwayne wasn’t choosy,’ she said. ‘If it was on offer he’d take it.’ Which sat oddly with her disapproval of Birkett’s vulgarity.

  ‘Did you see her leave on Wednesday?’ Sewell asked. ‘She had to pass by here and that little car would have been conspicuous.’

  ‘Who are we –’ Birkett began, turning to the Honeymans who stood like statues, no way of telling if their brains were racing or immobilized by panic.

  ‘We never saw her,’ Dorcas said, only her lips moving.

  ‘Dwayne?’ Honeyman breathed.

  ‘Hot-blooded,’ Dorcas contributed. ‘You can’t blame un.’

  ‘We brought him home,’ Sewell reminded them. ‘Now we’re going door-to-door, asking who saw her last.’

  ‘You done that,’ Honeyman said, while Birkett looked from one to the other, dumbfounded. He had been focused on one of his lads using Blind Keld for his screwing, they had the chap lined up for murder?

  ‘That was before we knew she was murdered,’ Sewell said. ‘There are other men in the village.’ It was as if he read Birkett’s mind but he was addressing Honeyman. Dorcas gave a thin smile and Sewell knew that she would alibi her son for every minute of Wednesday evening and night. He hated remote communities; tracing the missing Bailrigg husband was child’s play compared with Borascal where he had a premonition that every one of them would have an alibi. Like bloody Dwayne Paxton who had been drinking in the Grey Goat in Bailrigg.

  ‘My, you’re getting through a lot of eggs,’ Mabel exclaimed.

  ‘These are for Eleanor. Lovely brown shells,’ gushed Miss Pink, who’d kept fowls herself from time to time and was well aware that the only difference between a white egg and a brown one was the colour of the shell. ‘I lend a hand at Jollybeard occasionally,’ she went on. ‘Particularly if Sherrel has to go.’

  Mabel arranged the egg boxes neatly in Eleanor’s willow basket. ‘Had to go where?’ she asked casually.

  ‘She left.’ Miss Pink was vague. ‘A little queasy perhaps. It must be difficult, serving food in her condition.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mabel looked up sharply. ‘Like that again, is it?’ She held Miss Pink’s eye. ‘There’s one in every village.’

  ‘And often good mothers.’ Miss Pink was prompt.

  ‘She’s all right.’ Mabel was grudging. ‘It’s hard on the tax payer though, right enough. But then we all condone it as you might say. There’s Eleanor paying her in cash –’ She stopped short.

  ‘If it’s benefit fraud you’re thinking of, it’ll not be more than a few pounds a week. We can spare that.’

  Speak for yourself, Mabel thought. Aloud she said, ‘You should hear our Jean on the subject. That girl works her fingers to the bone to keep them in food and she’ll go at it even harder if Swinburn do decide to let them have this old place as a hiking centre. Jeannie could do with a little extra a week –’ Again she stopped, wondering why on earth she was sounding off like this to a relative stranger.

  ‘Sherrel was up here?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘No!’ Mabel had no time to consider this irrelevant question because the other was explaining – in a way: ‘Because you’re so angry.’ It could have been a child speaking.

  Mabel shook her head. How to spell out the facts of village life to an old spinster, and gentry at that? ‘Sherrel,’ she said patiently, ‘is no better than she should be.’ Miss Pink was solemn, absorbing this. ‘Not a – a street walker,’ Mabel elucidated, ‘but there’s no restraint, you know?’ Miss Pink looked baffled. ‘She likes men!’ Mabel almost shouted, as if the other were deaf. ‘Not the only one either,’ she muttered, unable to help herself.

  ‘Goodness. There are more like her in Borascal? There aren’t many young women –’

  ‘Not now. There was.’

  ‘Oh. Mrs Lambert. Well, yes, with hindsight …’

  ‘Some poor devil’s quaking in his shoes, although it’s likely he don’t know yet. No reason for him to think, even if the car’s been found, that it’d be taken for anything other than an accident.’

  ‘It’s in the papers,’ Miss Pink said stupidly.

  ‘Not foreign ones, I’ll bet. It’s only one more death of a good-time girl. Of course he could still be in this country but, like Swinburn says, he reckons that this chap could well be a foreigner or if not, then one of those long-distance drivers as go all over Europe.’

  ‘An outside job.’

  Mabel tried to work that one out. ‘You could call it that; certainly not a Borascal man. She were too discreet for that.’

  Mabel was right there; it wasn’t until after her death had been found to be murder that there’d been even a whisper of Isa’s promiscuity. And now everyone was full of it.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘We found the Bailrigg man,’ Holgate said. ‘That is, we found the husband and we’re not looking for anyone else. It’ll be on the news.’

  ‘You mean he killed her?’

  ‘We’re not looking for anyone else, sir.’

  Walter led the way to a wooden bench and sat down heavily. ‘I wonder why he did it,’ he said, not looking at the detective.

  ‘We don’t know that he did.’

  ‘He hasn’t confessed?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. He hanged himself.’

  ‘Oh, poor fellow.’

  Holgate sat down at the far end of the seat. Neither spoke for a while, listening to the birds, thinking of errant wives, of men driven beyond despair.

  ‘We questioned young Paxton,’ Holgate said at length. Walter stared, comprehension dawning slowly. ‘Your sister gave us that information,’ Holgate reminded him.

  ‘She dramatizes. She’s at that age.’

  ‘All the same, Paxton had women at Blind Keld.’ The other’s silence could have been taken for acquiescence. ‘Did you know that your wife went there?’ Holgate asked gently.

  ‘No.’ There was no surprise.

  ‘But you found out since.’

  ‘Gemma told me.’

  ‘Where is your sister?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Walter looked round vaguely. ‘She went out. She won’t be far away, she didn’t take her bike.’ His gaze came back to Holgate. ‘You can’t question her without a responsible adult present.’

  The DC smiled faintly. ‘Plenty of those around.’

  ‘I mean me.’ The tone alerted the detective; Walter wouldn’t have any responsible adult sitting in, only himself. Could it be … ‘Did they have a thing going?’ he asked. ‘Dwayne and Gemma?’

  Walter shrugged. ‘
They knew each other.’

  ‘Of course,’ Holgate mused, ‘she wouldn’t be in trouble, it would be him.’ Walter watched him warily. ‘He took women there,’ Holgate repeated, ‘not just the one.’

  ‘Not Gemma.’ It was too quick.

  Cooper walked round the corner of the house and across the new-mown grass. He sniffed the stranger’s chinos with interest and jumped on the seat, placing himself between the two men. Cooper disdained male laps. Regarding the sleek furred poll Holgate asked, ‘Why would your wife suddenly decide to drink a lot of whisky?’

  ‘She was unhappy. You asked me this before.’

  And they would keep returning to that same puzzling point until someone broke.

  ‘She wouldn’t get drunk to meet a lover,’ Walter said. ‘She was – eager. She didn’t need drink.’

  Holgate’s jaw dropped. Was this the breakthrough? ‘You knew.’ It was said with deep finality.

  ‘It’s hindsight. She would shower and change and use a lot of perfume and she’d come out’ – he turned and stared at the porch – ‘happy. She was very pretty – not always, but she was then. I thought it was the car: driving it with the top down, people staring, and the danger, the risk of being caught by a patrol; she’d think she could talk her way out of it. She could have done too, with most men.’ He stopped.

  Holgate, for something to do, put out his hand to the cat. Cooper’s spine shivered at the touch but there was no other response.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Walter said, and there was all the misery of his situation in the tone. He stretched his legs. There was a long silence which the other dared not break. ‘You’re right,’ he went on, sighing, ‘I did know, and I blocked it out. She’d have lied anyway if I’d asked her.’

  ‘Did Gemma know?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure.’ A wry smile. ‘She’s cleverer than me.’

  ‘There’s a call-out,’ Jean Blamire said. ‘I’m not going, it’s only a broken ankle. A botanist slipped in one of the gullies above Closewater. How can I help you?’