Troubled Waters

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘Were you successful?’ Pollard enquired.

  Leonard Bolling gave a snort of frustrated rage.

  ‘I was not. The blasted football louts who were rampaging in the village late on Tuesday night had beaten me to it. I came down by the steep path from the longstone to Upper Bridge, and they’d chucked the notices into the river and fouled the whole place with their nauseating litter.’

  ‘Spoilt your fun, in fact, Mr Bolling. But they’d left you the other notice, hadn’t they? The one at the end of the disused footbridge warning people that it was unsafe.’

  Leonard Bolling stared at him blankly for a moment. Then his face expressed genuine outrage and anger. ‘Trying to m-make out that I murdered that American chap now, are you?’ he spluttered.

  ‘The suggestion,’ Pollard replied tranquilly, ‘is yours. Mine is that you looked on the warning notice as another bit of Kenway-Potter property suitable for vandalising, and sent it to join the “Private Fishing” ones in the river some time during Wednesday, April the twenty-third. If you can give a satisfactory account of how you spent that day, I’m ready to withdraw the suggestion. Incidentally it doesn’t contain any implication that you removed the notice to bring about Mr Tuke’s death.’

  Still spluttering with rage Leonard Bolling eventually provided a timetable of his activities on April the twenty-third. After disposing of the pickaxe and spade and taking cover in the Manor garden he had returned to Bridge Cottage, pretty well all in. It had been ten minutes to six when he arrived. After making himself some tea he had rested on his bed for an hour, having set his alarm clock for seven for fear of oversleeping and being late for the County Court hearing. He had then bathed and shaved, eaten a little breakfast and set off in his van for Littlechester. After the expected verdict he had slipped out and driven straight home to find a representative of Ford’s, the estate agents entrusted with the sale of Bridge Cottage, erecting a ‘For Sale’ notice in the garden, and about to inspect the property to collect a few further particulars about it to be circularised to possible buyers. The man had been a decent chap and glad of a cup of coffee with his sandwiches. He had finally driven off at about twenty past one.

  ‘How is it you remember the time so clearly?’ Pollard enquired, allowing a hint of scepticism to appear in his tone.

  With a barely-controlled snarl Leonard Bolling replied that he himself had an appointment with his solicitors in Littlechester for two o’clock, and had left Bridge Cottage as soon as he had locked the place up when Ford’s man had gone. Toye impassively took down the name, address and telephone number of the solicitor, and the name of Ford’s representative. Protesting that he didn’t spend his life looking at his watch, Leonard Bolling thought that he had spent about half an hour with his solicitor and then gone on to Ford’s to discuss the conditions of sale of Bridge Cottage. Accompanied by another of the firm’s staff he then viewed two properties on the far side of Littlechester with a view to purchase, and finally drove home to Woodcombe, arriving just before six o’clock.

  ‘What did you do then?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘Having had practically no sleep since the Monday night, I went to bed. And as I’ve nothing further to add to what I’ve told you, I’d like to know if I’m still suspected of murder.’

  ‘You know perfectly well, Mr Bolling, that you are being interviewed about malicious damage, not intent to murder. Let’s keep to the point. You admit digging out the longstone on Mr Kenway-Potter’s property and causing it to fall. He may take legal proceedings against you, but that’s no concern of ours. We shall check the statement you have made about your movements on April the twenty-third with the people involved. If they confirm what you have told us we shall accept that it would have been virtually impossible for you to have removed the warning notice.’

  ‘Virtually impossible be damned!’ Scarlet in the face with fury Leonard Bolling rose on his toes, ludicrously suggesting an enraged bantam cock. ‘What the hell do you mean? When could I possibly have pulled up the bloody thing? I keep as clear of the village dolts as I can, but everybody knows Muggett saw it when he ran up the flag on the Wednesday morning. He’s been telling the whole place.’

  ‘Let’s recap, shall we? Mr Tuke was due at the Manor at seven o’clock that evening. He went up through the woods to see the longstone and the view from the top, starting at roughly six-fifteen. Presumably he would have come down again between six-thirty and six-forty five, intending to collect his car from the Green Man and arrive at the Manor on time. So if you got home here just before six o’clock, there’s about twenty minutes unaccounted for. Barely time to have done the job, but just adequate starting from here. And your frankly regrettable motive was very strong: you’ve made no secret of your obsessive dislike of Mr Kenway-Potter... One more topic, and we’ll leave you to get on with your packing-up. Obviously you’re a great reader, Mr Bolling —’ Pollard indicated the mass of books around them as he spoke. ‘Is writing another of your hobbies? Letter-writing in particular?’

  Leonard Bolling gave him a look of sheer venom. ‘For Detective Chief Superintendent read “licensed bully”. Because I’m half your size, you jump to the conclusion that I skulk behind anonymity instead of fighting people in the open who try to do me down, and get away with it under the law, what’s more. I shall enjoy seeing you trying to scratch up proof that I wrote those letters. When I write a letter I put my name to it. Lord God Almighty Kenway-Potter will have had one from me this morning if the Post Office is still functioning, telling him I dug up his bloody longstone and if he likes to sue me for damages, he can. He won’t, of course. Infra dig,’ Leonard concluded with a sardonic chuckle. ‘And now you can clear out. If you want me at the police station you can take me by force.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you, Mr Bolling,’ Pollard replied equably. ‘You’ve given us all the information we need at the moment. Good morning.’

  ‘Proper little bastard if ever there was one,’ Toye remarked uncharacteristically when the front door of Bridge Cottage closed behind them.

  ‘You can’t help being sorry for him, you know,’ Pollard replied. ‘It must be hell to have his obviously above-average intelligence and be next door to a dwarf. Think of people turning round to look at you in the street. Giggling girls in particular.’

  ‘You don’t seriously think he hoicked up that notice, do you?’ Toye asked as he unlocked the Rover.

  ‘No. On timing it’s theoretically possible, but I simply can’t believe that a chap of his size and age would have had the stamina when you think of how he’d spent the last eighteen hours or so. We’ll check up on his statement, but write him off for the moment, anyway I can hear a car coming from behind us. Keep your head down in case the Kenway-Potters are coming out of their gate. I want to tackle Fordyce next... Good Lord, what’s up, do you suppose?’

  In the driving mirror they watched an ambulance emerge from the Manor drive. It was closely followed by a Chrysler driven by Rodney Kenway-Potter. He gave the Rover a fleeting glance as he passed but made no attempt to stop. There were no passengers in the car. Both vehicles crossed Lower Bridge and turned right through Woodcombe.

  ‘Heading for Littlechester,’ Pollard said. ‘There’s no point in following for the moment. We’ll give them time to get clear of the village, and then drive up to the house and ask if K-P is in. There’s almost bound to be a daily woman around at this hour, and we can find out what’s happened.’

  They let a reasonable interval elapse. Toye then turned the car and they went slowly up the drive towards the Manor, drawing up at the front entrance. As they did so an elderly woman in an overall came out, a key in her hand, and stood staring at them. As Pollard got out and went towards her he saw that she was crying.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I’ve called to see Mr Kenway-Potter... Is something wrong?’

  ‘Oh, sir,’ she answered with difficulty, choking back a sob, ‘Mrs Kenway-Potter’s tried to make away with herself. They’ve taken he
r to hospital in Littlechester.’

  Back at Littlechester police station Pollard asked at once for enquiries to be made about where Mrs Kenway-Potter had been taken. The information was quickly forthcoming. To his relief she was not at the City’s General Hospital, but in an expensive nursing home, St Kilda’s, where, he hoped, there would be less red tape to contend with. He decided, however, that it would be self-defeating to try and make contact with Rodney Kenway-Potter at any rate until mid-afternoon.

  ‘Look here,’ he said to Toye, over an early snack of sandwiches and lager, ‘we can’t just sit on our bottoms for this next few hours, all the same. I want you to go around checking the wretched Bolling’s various alibis for the afternoon of April the twenty-third, picking up anything useful that you can. The solicitor will be sticky, but you might get some uninhibited opinions on the chap’s sanity from the estate agents. I’ll stay put in case anything comes in, and do a bit of thinking. O.K.?’

  Toye, always methodical, consulted a street map and came to the conclusion that in view of the traffic congestion in the city centre he would cover the ground more quickly on foot. As he had three people to interview at Ford’s, the estate agents, he decided to start there. Although the lunch hour had already started there was a reasonable chance of at any rate one of them being available. His luck was in. Mr Carter, who was handling the sale of Bridge Cottage, saw him almost immediately and proved expansive.

  ‘Extraordinary little cove, Mr Bolling, isn’t he?’ he said chattily. ‘I nearly fell flat the first time he was shown in here. My secretary never batted an eyelid, and I told her afterwards that she deserved a rise if only we’d got the money. What do you want me to tell you about him? Clients’ affairs are confidential you know.’

  ‘Merely a routine check, Mr Carter. We understand that he came to see you on the afternoon of Wednesday, April the twenty-third. Have you a record of when he arrived and how long he stayed?’

  The admirable secretary was summoned, and it was soon established that Mr Bolling had arrived at a quarter to three and stayed until about ten minutes past.

  ‘Then Mr Franklin took him over to see a property at West Nethercott, and another at Hanford St John,’ she added helpfully. ‘He — Mr Franklin, I mean — is out at lunch, but he’ll be back at one-thirty.’

  ‘Wotta girl, isn’t she? Thank you, m’dear,’ Mr Carter commented breezily. ‘See that he hangs on when he gets back. Inspector Toye wants to see him.’

  Toye asked if it would be possible to have a word with whoever had gone out to Woodcombe on April the twenty-first to put up a ‘For Sale’ board at Bridge Cottage.

  ‘That’ll have been young Green. See what he’s up to, Pam, and tell him to stand by.’

  By now Mr Carter had become uninhibitedly garrulous but his opinion of Leonard Bolling was entirely predictable and Toye learnt nothing new. Money was certainly no problem to him. He had paid a fancy price for Bridge Cottage and was dropping a packet on it without turning a hair. Buying a nice little place outside Wynford, too, and not even waiting for completion before clearing out of his Woodcombe house.

  Mr Green turned out to be a junior member of the firm, rather overawed at being interviewed by a Scotland Yard Inspector. He stated that he had arrived at Bridge Cottage at about a quarter to twelve on April the twenty-third, and had hardly started getting the board up when the owner arrived. A suspicious little gent who had followed him from room to room while he was collecting particulars that Mr Carter wanted. Watched him through a window while he ate some sandwiches in the firm’s car afterwards, too, but he had laid on a mug of coffee.

  ‘Can you remember what time you left?’ Toye asked.

  ‘Quarter past one. I’d got two more jobs to fit in that afternoon, and was keeping an eye on my watch.’

  Toye thanked him and made a note of the time. It fitted in with Leonard Bolling’s appointment with his solicitor at two o’clock. If he was going to make it he would have had to start off by one-twenty or one twenty-five at latest, just allowing him time to lock up Bridge Cottage before starting.

  Mr Franklin had returned punctually from his lunch and was available on the stroke of half-past one. He was intermediate in age and rank in the firm between Messrs Carter and Green, and struck Toye as more perceptive than either of them. He volunteered the information that Mr Bolling was recognised by Ford’s as a bit of an oddity, and that he himself had not looked forward to escorting him to view properties. However the drive to West Nethercott had been an unexpected let-up. The old gentleman had got into the back of the car and dropped off to sleep.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Inspector, I didn’t think he looked too good,’ Mr Franklin said. ‘I hoped he wasn’t going to have a heart attack or a stroke or something. Anyway we got to West Nethercott all right and he perked up. The vendor of the property had moved out, so we could give the place the once-over pretty thoroughly. Mr Bolling said the house would suit him well enough, but when he went round the garden and found it backed on to the garden of another house he turned the property down there and then. No privacy, he said. He must have got a thing about privacy judging by the report in the local paper about that fishing syndicate injunction business.’

  The visit to Hanford St John had been a complete frost. The house they were due to inspect turned out to be immediately opposite another one. Mr Bolling had refused even to get out of the car.

  ‘What time did you get back here?’ Toye asked.

  ‘Twenty to five. Mr Bolling had slept all the way again, and I was honestly rather rattled to think of him driving himself home to Woodcombe. I thought a cuppa might buck him up so I asked him if he’d care to come and have one. I was a bit surprised that he accepted, but he seemed glad of it. He’d got the palm of his right hand bandaged up, and I asked him if it made driving difficult, but he said no. He’d had a minor accident but it had almost healed.’

  ‘What time did he leave?’ Toye asked.

  ‘Just gone five. I went down to our car park where he’d left his van and saw him off, not feeling too good about it with the rush hour traffic building up.’

  Toye thanked Mr Franklin for his help and started off for the office of French, Halliday and Broughton, Leonard Bolling’s solicitors. He reflected that the call on Ford’s had at any rate produced some evidence that Bolling was pretty well all in by the end of the afternoon of Wednesday, April the twenty-third. Add to this the delays of the rush hour, and it seemed that he probably would not have got back to Bridge Cottage earlier than just before six o’clock, arriving home in no state to rush out and pull up the warning notice. Not conclusive evidence, but a step nearer to it.

  After some delay at the solicitors’ office Toye was admitted to the presence of Mr Halliday, the partner who dealt with Leonard Bolling’s business. He was coolly received, but on his stating that he merely wanted to make a routine check on times the atmosphere became more relaxed. Asked about the time at which Leonard Bolling had arrived to keep an appointment on April the twenty-third, Mr Halliday consulted his engagement book. He clearly remembered, he said, that the last appointment of the morning had outrun its allotted time, and consequently he had been late in going out to lunch and a few minutes late in returning. Mr Bolling had already arrived and had been announced at about ten minutes past two. He had stayed for about twenty minutes. This was confirmed by Mr Halliday’s secretary who had noted Mr Bolling’s departure at two-thirty-five.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Toye said courteously, playing for time by making an entry in his notebook. He sensed that behind his professional decorum Mr Halliday had his full share of normal human curiosity. ‘Is it in order to ask you if Mr Bolling seemed to be his usual self that afternoon?’

  Mr Halliday toyed with a paperweight.

  ‘Presumably you have met Mr Bolling, Inspector, so we can take it as read that his usual self, as you put it, would appear unusual to most people. The thing that struck me that afternoon was that he was much less aggressive than usual. Quite pleas
ed with himself, in fact.’

  ‘In spite of the fact that he had failed to get an injunction against Mr Kenway-Potter’s fishing syndicate that morning, and been landed with costs into the bargain?’ Toye commented.

  ‘I needn’t tell you that I had done my utmost to prevent him from applying for that injunction. He’s not a fool by any means, and in the end came to realise that he hadn’t a hope of getting it. But I couldn’t persuade him to withdraw his application. He’s as obstinate as a mule, and said he intended to go down with all his guns firing, and then clear out of the place. Money’s no problem for him, I may add. No, reverting to his looking pleased with himself, I think it was probably relief at getting the whole business over.’

  ‘I think I can add a further explanation, sir, speaking in confidence. Mr Bolling admitted to Chief Superintendent Pollard and myself this morning that he had brought about the collapse of the Woodcombe Manor longstone in the early hours of April the twenty-third. He also told us he’d written to tell Mr Kenway-Potter that he was responsible, what’s more.’

  ‘Good God! How on earth did a chap of his size possibly manage it?’ Mr Halliday exclaimed. ‘I wonder if Mr Kenway-Potter will institute proceedings for trespass and wilful damage? And,’ he went on, viewing the situation from a personal angle, ‘whether Mr Bolling will want us to go on acting for him when he has moved to Wynford... I remember now that he had his right hand bandaged. It’s a whacking great thing, that longstone. He was damn lucky that it didn’t fall on top of him. No wonder he was feeling pleased with himself, and looked a bit tired, I noticed, too. Been up most of the night, I suppose...’