Suddenly While Gardening

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  During the silence that followed he watched Henry Landfear and Crookshank stare at him, digest his proposal, and then, to their own surprise, recognise that there could be something to it. Crookshank, weighed down with the sense of having failed in the original enquiry into Heloise Grant’s death, was the first to speak.

  ‘I take your point,’ he said. ‘All of ’em, come to that. As you say, we don’t stand to lose if it doesn’t come off.’

  ‘What I’m thinking about is what we’re going to look like if it does come off,’ Henry Landfear said heavily, ‘seeing that we seem to have missed out completely over Heloise Grant.’

  ‘Surely,’ Pollard replied, ‘it won’t be the first time that fresh evidence turns up about a murder in the course of an investigation into something else?’

  Henry Landfear suddenly grinned, relieving the tense atmosphere.

  ‘You’re a good sort, Pollard. Well, what about it, Crookshank, if you’re game? It’s O.K. by me. Where do we go from here? Time’s short.’

  ‘Better find out what time the meeting they’re going to starts, hadn’t we?’

  ‘That’s easy. My wife’s on the Friends of Cattesmoor committee. I’ll ring her right away...’

  The meeting, they learnt, was to begin at half-past five. After some discussion it was settled that Pollard, Toye, Crookshank and support should go up in two cars at half past six, and park farther up the hill, just out of sight of the entrance to Upway Manor, in the lane leading to Cattesmoor.

  ‘After that,’ Pollard said, ‘it’ll be a case of playing it by ear. Waiting on events and whatever.’

  Shortly afterwards they dispersed to get a hasty meal before going into action. Back at their hotel Pollard and Toye collected sandwiches and beer and made for a table in a corner of the bar. As they ate they talked intermittently.

  ‘I’d have wanted a month of Sundays to get this scheme worked out,’ Toye said.

  ‘The idea hit me just as we got to the Super’s door. Now, of course, I’m getting cold feet.’

  ‘You mean you’re afraid they won’t talk, and it’ll be a washout as far as the girl goes?’

  ‘Not quite. It’s the feeling I’ve had all along that we haven’t got to the bottom of things. What really sparked off that skeleton business. As if even now something could pop out and hit me... Anyway, we’re committed to going ahead over Akerman. Have another pie — I’ve tasted worse. It may be some time before we get a chance of any more grub.’

  As they ate they intermittently followed a TV news programme. Local items considered newsworthy by the producer flicked on and off the screen. A fat woman was interviewed about an alleged poltergeist in her cottage. The public were warned about faulty electric light bulbs included in a consignment of Suntraps delivered to local shops. A group of villages were lobbying County Half about the inadequacy of their refuse collections...

  ‘Finished?’ Pollard asked. ‘Let’s push off, then.’

  Punctually at half-past six Crookshank, a sergeant, and a constable drove off from the carpark at the police station. Pollard, Toye and a second constable followed at an interval of ten minutes, it having been agreed that to go in convoy was unnecessarily conspicuous. At Upway Manor Toye turned the Rover in the drive entrance and backed gingerly up the unsurfaced lane beyond.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Pollard encouraged him. ‘It’s only round the first bend.’

  A wait of unknown duration now lay ahead. The sergeant and the constables had brought evening papers, and sat on the bank reading them. Crookshank moved to the back seat of the Stoneham car and became engrossed in official documents. Toye produced maps and studied the landscape over the gate. Pollard strolled on up the hill towards the moor, trying to recapture the atmosphere of his setting out on the Possel Way less than a fortnight earlier. He saw that even the countryside had perceptibly changed. The hedgerows had wilted under the blazing sun and were scattered with the petals of the wild roses, while the grasses were filmed with fine dust. The moor when he reached it now had a tawny scorched look, accentuated by the yellowing light of the evening sun. He stood for a few moments gazing westward along the route of the Possel Way. The track was inviting, compelling even, he thought, and wondered if something of the feelings of the pilgrims who had used it could possibly still hang about it. Reluctantly returning to the present he retraced his steps and joined the rest of the party. Crookshank looked up and gave him a brief nod as he passed.

  Time dragged on interminably and a degree of tension began to make itself felt. Several people made an involuntary movement as a bird suddenly scuttered in the hedge. Shadows lengthened imperceptibly, and bright points of light began to stab the blue haze over Stoneham on the far side of the valley. Then, at long last, heads went up sharply. There was a moment of indecision followed by a slight stiffening as the sound of an approaching car became unmistakable. It increased to a level at which it was possible to distinguish two cars, and reached a climax as they slowed to turn into the drive. It died away rapidly and ceased. Two car doors slammed. There was an outburst of barking.

  ‘Right,’ Pollard said.

  He led the way to the gates. The supporting Stoneham men faded into the shrubs bordering the short drive to the garage, while Toye and Crookshank followed him across the lawn in the direction of the house. As before there were lights in the drawing-room windows.

  Suddenly Toye stopped dead.

  ‘That’s not Akerman’s car outside the house. It’s the BMW,’ he said.

  Pollard had the feeling of the ground giving way under his feet, the sense of a premonition fulfilled increasing his dismay. He took a grip on himself as Crookshank swore under his breath, but before he could speak a male figure appeared at one of the windows and flung it up at the bottom.

  ‘Hullo?’ Peter Grant called enquiringly. ‘Why, it’s Superintendent Pollard! And Superintendent Crookshank... Nothing wrong, is there?’

  ‘Good evening,’ Pollard said, walking on ahead. ‘We wanted a word with Mr Akerman, and we’ve been told that he’s coming here to supper with your sister after a meeting in the town. I take it they haven’t got back yet?’

  ‘No, they haven’t. I shouldn’t think they’ll be long. But do come in, won’t you? I’ll shut the dog in the kitchen.’

  ‘Car,’ mouthed Crookshank as they walked to the front door. Pollard nodded, as Peter Grant appeared on the step.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, looking put out. ‘I’d no idea George Akerman was coming to supper. Rather tiresome. My fiancée and I wanted to discuss something with my sister, and had our own supper early. Kate’s just making some coffee. You’ll join us, won’t you?’

  He ushered them into the drawing room and vanished, saying something about extra cups. Crookshank was at the open window in a flash, giving a low whistle. His sergeant appeared.

  ‘Move the small car out of sight round the back of the house. Not the BMW, the other. Sharp!’

  He drew his head and shoulders in again abruptly, knocking over a small table sending unopened letters and a reading lamp flying, and swore once again as Toye hurried to pick them up.

  ‘Put paid to the bulb, I suppose. Try it, will you?’

  Toye pressed the switch without result, and began to examine the lamp to see if the bulb had worked loose in its socket. The next moment he put it down quickly and stooped to pull out the wall plug. Pollard and Crookshank stared at him in surprise.

  ‘The bulb’s a Suntrap,’ he said half-apologetically. ‘Best to be on the safe side after what we heard about ’em on the box just now.’

  ‘Suntrap? Not the sort of cut-price job you’d expect to find in a house like this,’ Crookshank commented.

  ‘How long has the scare about faulty specimens been going on round here?’ Pollard asked, conscious of a constriction in the region of his spine.

  ‘Since the end of last week. Some turned up in shops in Wintlebury. We’ve put out warnings.’

  The crunch of tyres on gravel came from outside. A quick g
lance from the window showed Kate Ling’s Mini Clubman being competently manhandled. Voices and the clink of crockery sounded in the hall, and Kate Ling walked into the room carrying a cake on a plate, followed by Peter Grant with the coffee tray. She wore a long flowered skirt and a silk top of a blue that matched her eyes; she gave Pollard a radiant smile. It faded as she sensed the tension in the group by the window. Crookshank took a step forward.

  ‘Sorry to sound abrupt, Mr Grant, but I want to know what make of electric bulb you normally use in this house.’

  Peter Grant put down the tray and faced him incredulously.

  ‘Vestas. I get them wholesale.’ There was more than a trace of annoyance in his expression and voice. ‘Just what is all this in aid of?’

  ‘Do you ever use a brand called Suntrap?’ Crookshank rapped out, disregarding the question.

  ‘N-never heard of it,’ Peter Grant retorted, stuttering slightly in rising indignation tinged with uneasiness.

  Kate put her hand on his arm.

  ‘I have,’ she said. ‘This evening, for the first time as it happens. There’ve been dangerous faulty ones, and there was a news flash on TV warning people.’

  ‘We’ll take a look at this particular specimen,’ Crookshank announced.

  Toye, already prepared for action with a handkerchief wrapped round his hand, removed the bulb from the reading lamp with extreme care and held it out for inspection.

  ‘Is this the chair where you sit when you come in of an evening to open your mail and take a look at the paper, Mr Grant?’ Crookshank asked.

  ‘At this time of year, yes.’

  ‘Then you and Inspector Toye here are a couple of bloody lucky chaps. See this bit of wire coming through the base of the bulb? Switch on the lamp and it becomes lethal. Fortunately I banged into the table and knocked everything over, smashing the bulb, and it led to our noticing the brand.’

  Kate Ling’s hold on Peter Grant’s arm tightened. He suddenly burst into speech.

  ‘Look here, I’ve had about enough of this. What the hell are you getting at? Nobody could put in that bulb without spotting the end of wire.’

  ‘My point exactly, Mr Grant.’

  In the pause which followed, the distant sound of an approaching car was heard. There was a sudden change of atmosphere as Pollard took over.

  ‘Take Miss Ling into another room and stay with her there,’ he ordered peremptorily. ‘It’s a police order,’ he barked out as neither of them moved. ‘Get cracking, do you hear?’

  As if returning to life they turned and went, Peter’s arm round Kate’s shoulders as he steered her out of the room. Crookshank flung himself into the chair by the reading lamp and looked enquiringly at Pollard, who nodded approval and signed to Toye to come to the other end of the room. As two cars came down the drive and drew up outside the house, he looked down at Toye with a sense of inexpressible relief.

  Car doors slammed successively. Davina Grant’s girlish enthusiasm came through the open window.

  ‘Oh, George, isn’t it a welcoming old house after a long hard day? What’s dear Mrs Broom got in the fridge for supper, I wonder? Peter!’ she trilled. ‘Here we are!’

  A moment later she walked into the drawing room. Pollard saw her eyes fly to the chair. At the sight of Crookshank reclining in it she froze in her tracks. Her hand flew to her mouth in a clumsy involuntary gesture. George Akerman, immediately behind, almost collided with her.

  ‘Not where you expected to find him, I take it?’ Crookshank enquired coolly.

  Her face darkened and became ugly with fury. Pollard came forward, pointedly ignoring her.

  ‘George Akerman,’ he heard himself saying. ‘I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murdering a man, whose identity is at present unknown, on 1 April last year. I warn you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.’

  For a moment no one spoke or moved. He identified a curious sound as Davina Grant breathing heavily. George Akerman’s expression was impassive.

  ‘I deny the charge,’ he said mechanically. A slight movement behind him indicated that the three Stoneham men had moved in.

  Davina Grant took a lunging step towards Pollard.

  ‘You’re mad! It’s monstrous!’ she spat at him. ‘How dare you? I’m going to ring the Chief Constable.’

  Turning to go out into the hall she found the way barred by uniformed men. Her name rang out from behind her. She swung round to find herself facing Crookshank.

  ‘Davina Grant,’ he repeated, ‘I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murdering Heloise Grant on 20 May 1975. I —’

  The caution was lost in a peal of triumphant laughter.

  ‘You can’t prove it,’ she mocked him.

  The stunned silence which followed was broken at last by George Akerman.

  ‘You killed her?’

  The words dropped into the stillness like heavy stones into deep water.

  Davina Grant gave a secretive complacent smile as she turned to him.

  ‘You’d planned to marry her, hadn’t you? I was watching... I was afraid she might be hotting up a bit when you were seeing so much of each other over that stupid Possel Way... What a silly man you are. Don’t you see that I can give you everything she could have given, and a lot more?’

  She leered at him.

  With a swiftness of movement that took the encircling police off guard, George Akerman had her by the throat. Illumination flooded into Pollard’s mind as he helped to drag him away.

  The room was suddenly full of people, noise and shouted orders from Crookshank. George Akerman, limp and unresisting, offered no opposition to being handcuffed and led to a chair.

  ‘Let me sit on the other side of the room,’ he said unexpectedly.

  ‘Why?’ Pollard asked.

  In reply he got a jerk of the head towards Heloise Grant’s portrait.

  ‘I’d like to look at that... I shan’t see it again.’

  ‘Move him across,’ Pollard said. ‘And get the car, Toye, will you? We’ll take him down to the station.’

  Crookshank, looking preoccupied, came up.

  ‘She’s not badly hurt,’ he said. ‘The ambulance is on its way. Let it get through first, will you, as the lane’s narrow. The young couple are following on to the hospital in their own car. I’m leaving a chap in charge up here for the moment... Be seeing you later.’

  George Akerman was informed of his legal rights but decided to send for a solicitor.

  ‘I’ll make a statement, if that’s what you want,’ he said dully. ‘I’m not a murderer. I never touched him. I found him with a dirty great fire blazing up against one of the Wanton Wenches. I yelled at him and started to run, meaning to give the blighter a bashing. He took to his heels, suddenly crumpled up and crashed into one of the stones... His face was just a bloody mess...’

  ‘You should have got him to the Biddle hospital at once.’

  ‘No point. He’d had it. Heart, I suppose. I was an R.A.M.C. orderly in the war.’

  ‘And this was on Tuesday, 1 April, last year, the day you said you spent at home?’

  ‘Yes. When you started nosing into things the best thing seemed to be to switch the Monday and the Tuesday round, and hope that if anybody’d spotted me they wouldn’t remember which day it was.’

  ‘So you decided the chap was dead, and then lost your head completely, didn’t you?’ Pollard asked.

  George Akerman continued to stare at the table.

  ‘I was in love with Heloise Grant,’ he said at last. ‘What price my chances with a charge of culpable homicide or whatever you like to call it hanging over my head?’

  Eventually a statement was put together and submitted to him. He made a show of reading it through, scrawled his name at the bottom, and listened to Pollard’s information about the immediate future with a complete lack of interest.

  ‘All the same to me,’ he muttered. ‘This time I’ve had it for good. Life packed up on me once b
efore, and I decided to have another go. Not this time. And that’s bloody well all I’m saying.’

  He relapsed into obstinate silence. When he was escorted out of the room Pollard followed, returning after a few minutes.

  ‘I’ve warned them to watch out,’ he said, slumping down wearily. ‘A suicide would just about round things off, wouldn’t it? I suppose our job’s worth it. Saving half the human race from the other half. They’re either stupid or plain wicked. That woman Heloise Grant giving her life to local good works and never noticing what was festering in the girl’s mind... I expect she’ll get off. Unfit to plead, or something.’

  Toye glanced at him and made a characteristically practical suggestion of getting a bit of sleep in what was left of the night.

  They were stuffing papers into their briefcases when a constable arrived.

  ‘Miss Ling would be glad of a word, sir,’ he told Pollard. ‘She’s in Waiting Room C.’

  ‘Miss Ling?’ Pollard exclaimed. ‘Still here? Good Lord, it’s half-past two. We’ll go along at once.’