‘What about Fordyce?’ Toye asked indistinctly, masticating a piece of breakfast roll.
‘Quite possibly, but I don’t want to start on him until we’ve gone all out to see if the fans can be cleared. He’s a complete job in himself with all his link-ups with Tuke... Now look here.’ Pushing his plate aside. Pollard placed a knife horizontally in front of him. ‘This is the stream. This teaspoon at right angles to it is the dud footbridge. These two bits of toast are the two warning notices, one at each end. Put what passes for your mind back to where we were standing, just here at the north end of the dud bridge, and looking due south. What could we see of the village?’
‘The church tower and a bit of the roof, straight ahead. Just to the right what Deeds said was the pub. You could see some of the roof and some dormer windows. Just to the left of the church tower a fair-sized house with top-floor dormer windows showing. The old parsonage, I daresay.’
‘Observant little chap, aren’t you? Just what I saw. Well, somebody could have looked out of one of those attic windows at some point during the Wednesday Tuke died. Gazing at the woods and the Manor, perhaps, and feeling bucked that the unpopular Bolling had lost his case and was clearing out. Then there’s the church tower. There doesn’t seem to be a local vicar these days, but one of the churchwardens might have gone up to dislodge a bird’s nest or whatever from a gutter. Or there could be a factotum of some kind. Tuke was buried here, so somebody dug the poor chap’s grave. Literally, I mean. And any normal human being getting up to a good vantage point stops for a look round. You may even be able to spot the longstone from the top of the tower. My idea is that it would be worth taking anybody in the dormer window or church tower category back to their vantage point, and check on everything they can remember noticing.’
Toye rather dubiously admitted that the scheme might be worth trying. ‘I can see that you’re hankering after a frontal attack on Bolling, and it’ll probably come to that. We’ll take the preliminary step of getting the people here to liaise with the Yard over unearthing his life history. And Fordyce’s too, of course. There’s a gaggle of newshounds lurking hopefully. As soon as I’ve managed to choke them off for the moment we’ll go round to the station.’
On arrival Pollard put in hand the enquiries into the personal histories of Leonard Bolling and James Fordyce, and then joined Toye in their temporary office. They spent a little time re-reading the report of Inspector Deeds’ interrogation of the Wonnacotts, but it did not suggest any lead worth following up.
The car park of the Green Man was at the rear of the building and they stood for a couple of minutes looking up at the two dormer windows in the roof. Both were uncurtained and shut, and gave the impression of belonging to unused attics rather than to occupied bedrooms.
The back door of the pub was standing open, and sounds of activity inside were audible. A knock brought a small brisk woman to the threshold.
‘Mrs Wonnacott?’ Pollard said, holding out his official card. ‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Pollard of New Scotland Yard, and this is my colleague, Detective Inspector Toye. I expect you’ve heard that we’ve come down to make some further enquiries into the death of Mr Edward Tuke. We’d be glad of a few minutes with you and your husband.
She eyed him doubtfully. ‘Well, sir, we know it’s our duty to help the police, but after all the questions Inspector Deeds asked us, I can’t for the life of me think of anything else we could tell you about the poor young man. Still, please to step inside and I’ll call my husband. He’s down the cellar.’
Echoing voices and subterranean thuds confirmed this statement. Mrs Wonnacott returned with a stocky grey-haired man in shirt sleeves, his face flushed from physical exertion.
‘Gentlemen from Scotland Yard, Tom,’ she said. ‘About Mr Tuke.’
Tom Wonnacott gave them good morning, and pulled up another chair to the unoccupied end of the big kitchen table.
‘He was as nice a young man as ever I saw,’ he told Pollard and Toye, ‘but I wish he’d never set foot in the Green Man, the trouble and worry it’s brought us.’
‘I can well believe that, Mr Wonnacott,’ Pollard replied, ‘and we’re only sorry to take up a bit more of your time, but the fact is that we need your help. You see, after all the talk there’s been since those letters were written saying somebody in Woodcombe moved the notice, your Chief Constable has decided that the matter had better be looked into again. That’s why Inspector Toye and I are here.’
‘Pack o’ bloody nonsense,’ Tom Wonnacott explained. ‘Course it was they football hooligans pulled’n up, same as they did the Private Fishin’ notices. The Littlechester cops should’ve tried a bit of third degree stuff on ’em. They’d own up fast enough then.’
‘Could be,’ Pollard agreed pacifically, ‘but I’m a chap under orders, you see, so here I am. One thing would settle it for good and all. If anyone saw that notice standing in its usual position after the football fans cleared off on the Tuesday night and before Mr Tuke went into the river, the fans couldn’t have done the job, and somebody else must have. See?’
The Wonnacotts absorbed this proposition and nodded in reluctant agreement.
‘Well then,’ Pollard went on, ‘we’ve been considering places from which somebody could have seen the notice on that day, Wednesday, April the twenty-third. Anybody going along the footpaths, of course. From the village there aren’t many points from which it can be seen because of the trees and shrubs along the south bank, but we think it might be visible from the attic windows here, and those in the house just beyond the church. Is there anybody in this household who could have been doing a bit of dusting up there, say, and glanced quite casually out of a window towards the river?’
Dusting was Mrs Wonnacott’s province and she took over.
‘There’s not much dustin’ done up there,’ she said, ‘seein’ as the attics aren’t in regular use. One’s just a lumber room for odd bits and pieces, and except for puttin’ up camp beds for the grandchildren if we’ve got a full house Christmas time, say, the other stays empty. I take a look round now and again, but if I did on April the twenty-third, that I can’t say. I don’t recall goin’ up, that’s all.’
‘Fair enough, Mrs Wonnacott,’ Pollard reassured her. ‘By the way, can the notice be seen from your attic windows?’
Not to his surprise, the Wonnacotts had no idea, and the party moved up to the top floor in order to settle the question. This proved a simple matter. Because of the alignment of the Green Man in relation to the river, and the existence of a large clump of bushes to the south-west of the old footbridge, neither the remains of the bridge nor the notices at each end of it could be seen from the dormer windows. The Wonnacotts relaxed perceptibly as the prospect of further involvement with the police came to an abrupt end and refreshments were offered. Over cups of coffee in the kitchen conversation about Edward Tuke flowed easily.
‘Well,’ Tom Wonnacott said, stirring vigorously, ‘if ever he had a contact here in Woodcombe, they never met up in this pub. He came in early, asked for a pint and bread and cheese, and sat eatin’ and drinkin’ and saying nothin’ to nobody. Not till he got up and came to the bar to ask if he could have a bed for the night. When I got back from askin’ the missus, ’e was talkin’ to Mr Kenway-Potter and gettin’ an invite to supper up at the Manor . And if Mr Kenway-Potter set out to land ’im in the river, I’ll drink every drop we’ve got ’ere, and go for a ten mile walk on top of it.’
‘Mr Tuke had a chat with a lady called Mrs Rawlings, didn’t he?’ Toye asked.
The Wonnacotts exchanged amused but tolerant glances.
‘That he did, poor chap. Mr Kenway-Potter brought her over and introduced them, and then cleared off quick with his lady. She’s nice enough, Mrs Rawlings, but she’s got what they call folklore on the brain. Seems Mr Tuke asked why there’s no painted inn sign outside and that set her off.’
‘There’s an old tale about it,’ Mrs Wonnacott took up. ‘There’s
an awful ugly face carved in a stone up in the church roof. Seems you find others like it in churches up and down the country. A Jack-in-the-Green or a Green Man it’s called. But local folk used to say a mason carved it from a face he saw on that great big stone up to Manor Woods, and that it was the Devil’s face. If that’s what he thought he saw he must’ve taken a lot more than was good for him. Anyway, it’s real ugly and nasty, I’ll grant you that, so Woodcombe people never wanted it hanging on a sign outside their pub. Why, they wouldn’t sit in the pew underneath it in the old days, I’ve been told. ’Twas said that if a pregnant woman did, she’d miscarry for sure.’
Pollard put down his empty coffee cup. ‘We must have a look ourselves,’ he said. ‘The church is our next port of call. Is there somebody around who’d take us up to the top of the tower?’
‘Sammy Muggett’s got the key. He goes up to fix the flag when we flies ’er. We’ve no vicar livin’ here now, not since we joined up with four other villages in what they calls a group ministry, but old Sammy does ’is best. You’ll find ’im in the cottage next but one to the church, just past the old parsonage. Gettin’ on, but still spry is Sammy.’
‘Some says he’s a bit simple, but he keeps the church an’ the churchyard a treat,’ Mrs Wonnacott contributed.
Pollard thanked the pair for their help and the welcome coffee, and assured them that he and Toye would be looking in for a drink as soon as they could make it.
‘You go and rout out the estimable if limited Sammy Muggett,’ he said to Toye as they walked towards the church, ‘while I track down this real ugly and nasty mug that Mrs Rawlings seems so impressed by.’
His hand was on the latch of the lychgate when he paused, confronted by the church notice board just inside. It was of the common funeral type with gold lettering on a black ground and headed ‘Church of St George the Martyr, Woodcombe’. He felt a small tremor of excitement. April the twenty-third, St George’s Day, would be the patronal festival. No doubt the feast was observed on the following Sunday, but surely the flag would have been flown on the day itself, hoisted on the tower flagstaff by Sammy Muggett? Was there just the chance of a breakthrough here? It would depend on the sort of chap he was ... nothing must be suggested to him, of course...
Footsteps and voices were approaching from further down the road, heralding the return of Toye with a companion. Pollard, standing at the church door, watching him come through the gate with a small white-haired chirpy-looking man whose bright eyes surveyed him with wonder.
‘Mr Sam Muggett?’ he asked.
‘That’s me, sir, Sexton of this ’ere church for thirty-five years come Advent Sunday. You two gennelmen wants to go up top? My, I never thought as I’d be takin’ two Scotland Yard detectives up the ole tower.’
Pollard’s apology for giving trouble was brushed aside. Sam Muggett assured him that the ladders were no more to him than his cottage stairs, he’d been up and down that often. He escorted them into the church, unlocked a small door in the ringing chamber and led the ascent with surprising nimbleness. Pollard, who disliked heights, was glad to emerge into sunlight and fresh air. A quick glance told him that the disused footbridge and the white rectangles of the two warning notices were clearly visible. He gave Toye a warning glance.
The extensive view was duly admired, Sam Muggett indicating various landmarks.
‘That there be Lower Bridge,’ he told Pollard, pointing with a stubby gnarled finger. ‘Bridge Cottage t’other side wur that ole bugger Bolling’s bin, but ’e’s orf now, thanks be ... Woodcombe Manor ’alf way up slope, and on t’other side under they rocks to that ’eathenish ole stone but us can’t see ’un fer the trees. Oughter be down yur in consecrated groun’, I sez, then us wouldn’t niver ’ave no more trouble with ’ee.’
In an attempt to get the conversation round to Sam Muggett’s activities on the early morning of April the twenty-third, Pollard asked if the flag were often flown.
‘Well, Sir, we runs ’er up fer the Queen’s birthday an’ any big royal occasion. And she wur half-mast for Mr Churchill and for Lord Mountbatten, o’ course. Then there’s the festivals like Christmas and Easter Day, and our Patronal. If it falls on a weekday, we keeps ’er up over the Sunday followin’, when we ’as a special service.’
‘Your Patronal Festival’s April the twenty-third isn’t it?’ Toye asked casually.
‘Thass right, sir. And to think o’ that poor young man meetin’ ’is end that very day. A beautiful mornin’ it was. I was up ’ere seven o’clock a-runnin’ up the flag, and real lovely it wus all around.’
‘I suppose by late April it’s full daylight as early as that, even allowing for Summer Time?’ Pollard asked.
‘Bright as noonday it wur,’ Sam Mugget assured him. ‘Everythin’ showin’ up. Me eyes is as good as ever they wur, thanks be, and I could pick out the clock turret over to the Manor on the old stables, an’ the steamroller when they wur puttin’ in the water main up the Marycott road, and that dratted old bridge down there yonder with the noticeboards each end —’
‘You could see the noticeboards at each end?’ Pollard asked with a faint touch of incredulity in his voice.
‘Why, sir, they white boards stands out a mile. Look at ’em now. I could see ’em as plain as you see me this minit. An’ what’s more, there wur a dirty great ’eron standin’ by the board on the far bank, come after Mr Kenway-Potter’s trout. An’ as I watched ’n ’e took off downstream and crossed Lower Bridge, that low that Bill Sparkes bringin’ the milk lorry down ’ad to brake.’
There was a brief silence.
‘Mr Muggett,’ Pollard said gently, ‘when Inspector Deeds came round the village asking if anybody had seen the notice on the far bank in its usual place during St George’s Day on April the twenty-third, why didn’t you tell him you saw it when you were hoisting the flag that morning?’
In a flash Sam Muggett’s expression became that of a startled child charged with an unconscious misdeed.
‘’E never arst me that. ’E only wanted to know if I’d been along the far bank on the Wednesday, an’ I ’adn’t. I wur busy with gettin’ ready for Sunday. Bein’ up ’ere for the flag ’ad gone clean out of me ’ead with all the confloption that was goin’ on about the young chap.’
‘Not to worry, Mr Muggett,’ Pollard reassured him. ‘You’ve remembered now, and that’s what matters.’
Bill Sparkes, the lorry driver, worked for a big milk depot at Wynford. It turned out to be his day off and the Littlechester police were unable to run him to earth until the late afternoon. When questioned at the station he confirmed Sam Muggett’s statement about the heron without hesitation.
‘Ruddy great bird!’ he said with feeling. ‘Flew right past me windscreen. I might’ve crashed the parapet an’ landed the ’ole outfit in the river.’
Asked if he had noticed anything unusual as he drove through Woodcombe, he replied that they’d got the flag flying up on the church tower, and there’d been a bloke up there, too.
After Sparkes had gone, Superintendent Martin and Inspector Deeds agreed with Pollard that this bit of supporting evidence clinched things. The fans were out as far as Edward Tuke’s death went. The Super threw himself back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
‘So what?’ he enquired. ‘Glad it’s you people and not us to make the next move. It’ll mean reopening the inquest. I suppose?’
Understandably the atmosphere was slightly strained on account of the significance of St George’s Day having been overlooked, and the unfortunate wording of Inspector Deeds’ question to Sam Muggett.
‘Bolling very likely vandalised the longstone on the night of April the twenty-second,’ Pollard replied, ‘and may quite well have written the letters all out of bloody-mindedness, but it doesn’t look as though he removed the notice. He’d have done it during the night, probably on the way up or down when on the longstone job. Not left it until broad daylight on the twenty-third. We’ll have to go at him first thing tomorrow
. I’m pretty sure he’s only a loose end, but the sooner it’s tied up, the better.’
Superintendent Martin sardonically wished them joy, and suggested a foursome supper, but Pollard rather regretfully declined on the grounds of needing to put in some more time on the file.
‘I feel an urge to celebrate,’ he said to Toye when they were back in their office. ‘It wouldn’t be exactly tactful in front of the Super and Deeds. I’ll stand you a drink, though, old man, at the posh Ring and Crozier before we go and eat at our more modest pub. Let’s leave the car here, and walk. It’s no distance.’
The Ring and Crozier, a four-star establishment, was in the Cathedral Close. The bar was spacious, well-carpeted and there was ample seating at small tables. Pollard was instantly recognized by the head barman and received prompt attention. Bearing a couple of lagers he headed for a small table commanding a good view of the whole room. Toye asked if he were on the lookout for anyone.
‘Force of habit, I suppose,’ Pollard replied. ‘You never know, though.’
At intervals he unobtrusively took in their fellow drinkers. Men standing at the bar and engaged in conversation with each other and the staff interested him less than people seated like Toye and himself, and enjoying their drinks in a more leisurely way. After a time he felt certain that he was being the subject of conversation between a couple on the opposite side of the room, and that a measure of disagreement was involved. The woman shifted her position, he took a lightning glance, and registered early middle age, good features and elegance and a degree of tension. The man, who appeared to be urging some point of view, was of about the same age and had the unmistakable county gentry stamp. Presently they got up rather abruptly, and the woman led the way to the door without looking in Pollard’s direction. It was held open for her, and she disappeared, closely followed by the man. Pollard looked at Toye, one eyebrow slightly raised.
‘Kenway-Potters?’ Toye queried, who missed little.
Troubled Waters Page 6
