‘Ostensibly? That’s an odd word to use. Do you mean he wasn’t really running it, or wasn’t running it properly?’
Mr Barrington sighed. ‘Far be it from me to criticise, but…it wasn’t the same. He was always popping in and out. Things got mislaid. Clients questioned why he wasn’t there. Mr Arnold made a point of being there for his most important clients.’
‘But Mr Nigel did not.’
‘No. He did not. He was, shall we say, erratic to say the least. Very erratic and unreliable. Mr Nigel, I have to say, is not a reliable man. Erratic. Yes. Erratic.’
‘So Mr Arnold stopped popping in six months ago when he became ill. What was the matter with him?’
Mr Barrington grinned weakly. ‘Everything an old man is likely to suffer from. Prostate problems, arthritis, a weak heart. He was rushed into hospital with suspected prostate cancer, but was then allowed home. Then he went in again and then out again. On the last occasion he went in it was found he was suffering from pneumonia. He demanded to be sent home even though he wasn’t fully recovered. I understand he had something of a relapse and was unconscious for some time – very ill indeed.’
‘And he didn’t go back into hospital?’
‘He refused and Mr Nigel didn’t insist.’ He paused as he gathered his thoughts. ‘I’m afraid that Mr Nigel’s attitude to his father reflected that of Mr Arnold to his son.’
Honey recollected the way the old man had stared at her breasts when speaking. Not once had his eyes fixed on her face. Nigel Tern had been much the same at the prize giving and publicity event outside the shop. The phrase like father like son came to mind.
One particular thing niggled Honey. ‘You seem to know a lot about Mr Arnold’s illness, Mr Barrington.’
‘I phoned the hospital and I asked Mr Nigel every time I saw him. I also phoned the house. Mrs Cayford works at the hospital part time when she isn’t at the house, so knew everything that was going on.’
‘Mrs Cayford was the lady at the shop the other day?’
‘Yes.’
Honey was thoughtful. Had Mr Nigel wished his father dead? Very likely. But how about the other way round?
‘Seeing as they didn’t like each other very much, you don’t think Mr Arnold might have murdered his son?’
For the first time since she’d met him, a touch of humour lit Mr Barrington’s face.
‘He’s hardly likely to be strong enough to do that. Not physically. They didn’t like each other, but Mr Arnold was no killer. In fact he was a pacifist during the Korean war era in the early fifties. He still had to do his national service, but was able to get a desk job in Catterick. I think he was an invoice clerk attached to the quartermasters stores.’
Honey nodded thoughtfully. ‘Did he dislike his son enough to get somebody else to kill him?’
Barrington shook his head emphatically. ‘No. Absolutely not. That isn’t the way he does things. He’s most certainly not a killer. The way to bring Mr Nigel into line was financially. He liked…’ Mr Barrington paused. ‘He enjoyed a playboy lifestyle. A threat to cut off his salary and allowance, perhaps even threaten to cut him out of his will, would have had more effect. However, Mr Arnold was ill for six months so Mr Nigel had free rein.’
‘I noticed when we were in the shop that he – Mr Arnold - was very angry. Have you ever seen him that angry before?’
‘Oh yes. Although Mr Arnold is a gentleman and prefers the company of gentlemen, he does have a temper. Of course he does not show this when in the company of clients especially titled gentlemen and royalty.’
‘What did Mrs Tern die of?’
‘Oh, she drowned in a boating accident. Mr Nigel was at boarding school at the time. He was about nine years old.’
‘I understand Mr Nigel was quite a ladies man. Do you know who those ladies might have been?’
‘No.’
His response was very emphatic. She didn’t believe him.
‘Did he have any enemies that you know of?’
‘Plenty. He was not a likeable man.’ Mr Barrington frowned. ‘I only wish I’d stood up to him, but he was the boss and I let everything flow over me. He liked being in control. He kept the shop assistants under his thumb, his family and the sub contracted tailors. Some of them plain hated him, but nobody turns down work of this calibre. You see it’s such a feather in the cap. Some of them can boast of making a sports jacket for a prince – and I think you know who I mean without a name being mentioned.’
Honey thought of Highgrove. It wasn’t far away. Boasting that you’d made a jacket for the heir to the throne was a definite marketing advantage.
‘How about Mr Pauling? Is he still alive?’
Barrington shook his head. ‘No. He died some time ago in a skiing accident. Miss Grace was injured in a skiing accident. That’s why she’s in a wheelchair.’
‘Two accidents!’
‘Indeed.’
‘At the same time as her father?’
‘No. Sometime later.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘No. I’m wrong. It was at the same time. It was just that I didn’t realise it straightaway.’
It occurred to Honey that Tern and Pauling, tailors and outfitters to the gentry, were accident-prone.
‘Was there anything else you think might be useful?’
Mr Barrington shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Yes. Floyd Bennett-Simpson. He offered to buy the property in Beaufort Alley a while ago. He kept pestering Mr Arnold to sell but Mr Arnold would have none of it. But Mr Nigel has had lunch with him a few times following Mr Bennett-Simpsons visits to the shop. I think Mr Nigel was willing to sell. He kept it from his father of course.’
The day was rolling on and this interview was taking longer than anticipated. Honey kept her cool. She suspected that Mr Barrington was privy to a lot more than he was letting on. He’d seemed quite expansive at first, but had become more withdrawn the more the interview had gone on. However, it didn’t hurt to press on.
‘Mr Nigel seemed to have his own agenda with regard to the shop.’
‘He did.’
‘So tell me if I’ve got this wrong; Mr Arnold knew nothing about the refurbishments or the fact that Mr Nigel was considering selling. Is that what you’re saying?’
He seemed to think about it before nodding. ‘I think so.’
Honey frowned. What would be the point of refurbishing a shop situated in a building you were thinking of selling?
‘Am I right in thinking there are residential apartments above the shop?’
‘Yes. Six in total.’
‘Do any of the staff live there?’
Mr Barrington chuckled. ‘None of us earn enough to afford the rents. Some of the residents have lived there for quite some time. Others are newcomers, friends of Mr Nigel. Some of them are women.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t know any of his women.’
Mr Barrington shifted in his seat. ‘I think I should leave now.’
‘No matter. They’ll be questioned.’
He nodded curtly as he slid off the chair looking quite relieved when his feet hit the floor.
‘I’m sorry you lost your job, Mr Barrington. I think some of what you have told me might be helpful. It’s not evidence, but it is useful background information. Thank you again for dropping in.’
Honey phoned Doherty the moment Mr Barrington had left.
‘I’ve had a visitor. Mr Cecil Barrington popped in. He wants the police to know but doesn’t wish to be seen entering a police station.’
‘I don’t blame him. A right den of iniquity!’
Honey laughed.
‘So what did he tell you?’
‘Mainly general stuff, though I can’t help get the impression that he knows more than he admits to. Mr Nigel Tern dismissed him from service and to his great surprise, the old man has followed suit. Obviously he was angry and came in here determined to take revenge on being dismissed, but his courage ran out. He told me a few bits and pieces, though nothing that w
on’t keep. Any progress your end?’
‘We’ve interviewed the residents in the flats above the shop and in the other buildings too. Nobody saw anything.’
‘From what Mr Barrington told me, some of those flats are let to Mr Nigel’s lady friends.’
‘We need a list of them. Nobody actually admitted to knowing him intimately.’
‘I take it the alibis for the employees check out.’
‘As far as we can tell, though it’s early days. Did Barrington give you any leads to anyone who might have had a motive?’
‘Not really, except there was a property developer interested in buying the property. He’d already approached Mr Arnold who’d promptly turned him down. Apparently Mr Nigel Tern was more amenable and quite friendly with him, lunched with him a few times. It did seem as though he was interested in selling, though I have to ask why Mr Tern would modernise the shop if he was thinking of selling it.’
‘He wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.’
‘Although of course the Tern Trust does own a number of other properties in Bath, though I doubt Mr Nigel was in a position to sell whilst his father was still alive…which begs the question…’
‘Was Mr Nigel anticipating his father’s imminent demise?’
‘It’s worth a thought.’
Honey considered what she might do if she were considering selling the Green River Hotel. A lick of paint, perhaps, but Nigel Tern had carried out a total revamp. To her mind it suggested that he anticipated carrying on trading. She voiced her thoughts to Docherty.
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘I take it Nigel Tern was the old man’s sole beneficiary as the only son.’
‘We’re checking on that, though it’s hard pinning his solicitor down. Her time seems to be split between hospital and client appointments.’
Honey remembered the woman in the wheelchair. ‘Are we talking about Grace Pauling?’
‘The very same.’
‘I wonder how close she was to Nigel Tern?’
‘They’d known each other for most of their lives. She isn’t unattractive.’
‘But she is in a wheelchair.’
She closed the connection. Her mind went back to the presentation. John Rees had seemed to know quite a bit about Grace Pauling. She decided to give him a call; better still, how about a walk? You could do with some fresh air, she told herself.
Rifleman’s Way was crowded with people, milling around with blank faced enthusiasm and cameras hanging around their necks. As usual the Japanese sported more than one camera. Honey wondered how they managed to do much sightseeing at all if they were forever taking videos and photos. She concluded that they didn’t really get to enjoy where they’d been until they got home, visiting the places again by proxy via a computer screen and an HDML lead.
The brass bell above the door jangled approvingly. Unlike some lone shopkeepers, John Rees had not been tempted to get rid of the old bell and put a pressure sensor under the doormat. The decor Nigel Tern had adopted for his gentlemen’s outfitters wouldn’t suit him at all.
Lean, rangy and looking dishy without meaning to, he was serving a Japanese couple but managed to mouth a swift hello in her direction. Honey hovered by the door, waiting for him to finalise his business.
‘Mercator charts are very collectable,’ she heard him say.
The Japanese couple nodded their heads silently as they poured over what he was offering them, the man’s spectacles perched half way down his nose.
Deciding that things were likely to take a little longer than anticipated, Honey wandered further into the shop. She occasionally took a book from the shelf, more attracted by its spine that its title. There were exceptions of course. She came across an old copy of Fanny Hill. She was no expert, but it looked like a first edition. It felt good in her hands, the cover a little rough.
Fanny Hill! Now here was a girl who had unswervingly exploited her looks, the only real asset that she’d owned.
The rustling of a paper carrier bag – John refused to use plastic – and the tinkling of the till drawer, was followed by the bell jangling as the Japanese couple left clutching their purchases.
Honey smiled at John from the far end of the shop. John smiled back.
‘A good profit I hope.’
‘I got what I wanted. It was an old map of Japan – before too much of it was properly charted. They loved it.’
‘And you loved the price they paid?’
‘You bet I did. Can I get you a glass of wine? I’ve got a bottle to finish off, then off out to spend the proceeds of sale replenishing my cellar.’
‘You don’t have a wine cellar.’
‘I have a cupboard! And a fridge.’
Honey smiled. ‘You always offer me wine before anything else.’
‘I do have coffee, but it’s a bit stewed.’
Honey glanced at the glass percolator. ‘It doesn’t look stewed. It’s still dripping.’
John grinned and shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Oh well. That’s my excuse scuppered. Join me in celebrating my sale. White or red?’
She chose white.
‘Ah yes,’ he said opening the small fridge that was neatly hidden behind the counter. ‘You always prefer white at lunchtime.’
‘Even though it’s not quite lunchtime.’
She quite enjoyed the clink as they touched glasses. There was something reassuring about it. For a start it made her forget that blasted paperwork.
John had a pleasant smile. ‘I take it your visit is not just for pleasure – although of course I live in hope.’
She just about controlled her urge to turn pink. Doherty was her daily bread but it didn’t hurt to fancy a bagel now and again – as long as it remained nothing more than a passing fancy.
‘I suppose there’s no point in asking if you are aware of the demise of Nigel Tern.’
John gave a sideways tilt of his head as he continued to pour. ‘Nobody could fail to be aware of it. What a way to go! It could almost be described as a live performance – if it wasn’t for the fact that he was dead.’
Honey pulled a face. ‘That’s not funny.’
‘It wasn’t meant to be.’
John asked her to give him more detail. ‘I can’t help being interested. I mean, was he a one off or is there a serial killer on the loose with something against shop keepers. Worse still, am I the next? You see. I can’t help being interested. Everyone is interested.’
Honey outlined the scene in the shop window – that is the way it was after the gentlemen’s outfitters had won the window display award.
‘I saw it earlier in the day. It was dramatic, perhaps even a bit melodramatic, but there was no swinging body. Oh sorry, I should say there was no dead body hanging from the gallows.’
‘You saw it that morning?’
He nodded. ‘Yep. Then you saw it.’
‘You were one of the judges.’
‘Correct.’
‘Who was the third?’
John shrugged his shoulders. ‘Beats me. Everything was normal when me and Lee Curtis swept past. It ticked a few boxes for me, though not all. I preferred the display in the window of the Chocolate Soldier.’
‘Really?’ Honey frowned. ‘I gave it top marks. You gave the Chocolate Solider top marks. Right?’
‘Yep. That’s about the size of it.’
‘I’m presuming our third judge was of the same opinion as me and voted for Tern and Pauling.’
‘You’d have to ask him.’ John finished his tipple and poured himself another. Honey declined a top up.
‘So who was the first person to see the body hanging ther?’
‘A street sweeper found him. He was a bit shocked to say the least. I mean nobody expects to find a murdered man in a shop window. I keep thinking the killer was trying to send a message but the police are having none of it. The thing is if it was the old man swinging from the gallows, the finger would be pointed at his son simply because he would inherit everything.
As it is, the old man still has everything and might very well be at a loss as to who to leave his money to.’
John frowned. ‘I think there are relatives, though not close relatives. I don’t think the old man was one to encourage visits from relatives he had no time for.’
‘You know that for sure?’
John hitched a ‘swimmer’ from the glass with his pinky. There were a lot of midges around this year a few seemed keen on dive-bombing into a cold chardonnay or plum red Shiraz.
He nodded slowly, one arm across his chest, hand tucked into his armpit. He gestured for Honey to take a seat behind the counter whilst he leaned against the end of a bookcase.
‘His wife had family. None of them were welcome when she was alive so they certainly weren’t after she died. I think Mr Tern Senior may have had a sister. I don’t know the details except that she approached him at one time with regard to him helping her out money wise. I’m not sure whether she was married, but I did hear rumour that she got ‘in trouble’ as girls were said to do back then, and needed his help. Needless to say, he sent her packing.’
‘How do you know all this?’
John’s grin widened, his hand holding the wine glass as shoulder level. He looked impishly naughty, a factor that sent a shiver down Honey’s spine.
‘One of the hired help – in his house not in his shop.’
Honey regarded him quizzically, aware of the weight of her hair on her shoulder as she tilted her head.
‘Not a nurse by any chance?’
He hid his smile in a sip of the white wine remaining in his glass.
‘I’m a sucker for a nurse in uniform. The old type mind. Not these scrubs. They may be more hygienic and convenient, but hey, starched aprons crackled when a nurse bent over to plump your pillows. You’d never get that with a set of scrubs. And that was besides the black stockings....’
Honey raised her hand in a traffic stopping gesture.
‘Hold it there, cowboy. Can we keep to the subject in hand?’
He sighed. ‘If you must.’
‘It wouldn’t be Edwina Cayford you’re talking about would it?’
Dead Suited Page 11
