by Alex Walters
'If you mean,' Hamshaw responded carefully, 'can I think of anyone with a motive for killing him – no, not really. Not a serious motive. Though I can imagine some would have hated him for what happened to his wife.'
'I'm aware of the story, sir.' Winterman glanced at Hoxton. 'Do you know if his wife had any relatives or friends?'
'Who might have avenged her death by killing her uncaring husband? I'm not aware of any, Inspector. And why would they wait so long?'
'Revenge is a dish best served cold, and all that,' Hoxton suggested unexpectedly. 'Or perhaps this was the first chance they had.'
Hamshaw nodded respectfully. 'I suppose. But I'm not aware of any. Fisher had little contact with anyone. Just drank himself into a stupor.'
'Was he a wealthy man?' Winterman asked.
'I assume you're looking into that yourselves, but I'd be surprised. As far as I'm aware, he lived on his stipend. You've probably discovered that his cottage is part of my estate – a small gesture of charity on my part for which he never showed the slightest gratitude. I suppose he might have had some other source of income – family money, perhaps – but he showed no sign of it. I can't imagine that anyone would have thought it worth trying to rob him.'
'Someone might have,' Winterman said. 'These things happen. Do you know William Callaghan?'
Hamshaw blinked, clearly thrown by the non sequitur. 'This would be Professor Callaghan's son?'
'That's right, sir.'
'I've met him once or twice, with his father. I can't say I know him.'
'You know his father?'
'I've known his father for years. We were at university together. Or, at least, we were at university at the same time. I didn't really know him then. We've developed an acquaintance since, as our paths have crossed.'
'He's a friend of yours?'
Hamshaw looked uncomfortable, as if he had been challenged about some unsavoury peccadillo. 'I wouldn't say "friend". We have little in common. But we've got on well enough when we've been thrown together.'
'You were both involved in church matters?'
For the first time, Hamshaw's equanimity seemed to crack slightly. 'I'm sorry, Inspector, this does begin to sound like some kind of interrogation.'
'My apologies, sir,' Winterman said smoothly. 'That wasn't my intention. I'm just trying to build a picture of the various relationships surrounding Reverend Fisher.'
'Of course, Inspector. I realise that you have a job to do. I'm very happy to give you any support I can. But there's little more I can tell you. Yes, Professor Callaghan and I were both involved in church matters, but only because we were pillars of the local community, I suppose.' He paused. 'And towards the end of Fisher's tenure in the role, we both had some difficult conversations with him.'
'About his drinking?'
'His drinking and his general behaviour. His sermons were often – inappropriate would be the most generous description. His treatment of parishioners also left something to be desired.'
'In what way, sir?'
'You name it. He got bees in his bonnet. Made wild accusations. He was rude to people. He made it very clear he didn't suffer fools gladly and that most of his parishioners fell into that category. If anyone went to him seeking help or succor–' He stopped. 'All in all, inappropriate behaviour for a clergyman.'
'This was after his wife left him?' Winterman asked the question casually, leaning back on the uncomfortable sofa.
Again, Hamshaw appeared momentarily thrown, as if Winterman had displayed unexpected knowledge. 'I don't really know, Inspector. The unpleasant business with Fisher's wife was some years ago. My recollection is that Fisher was always a rather erratic character. But yes, matters took a considerable turn for the worst after his wife left him. That was the point at which he began drinking excessively. After that, things deteriorated.'
'I understand Fisher's wife lodged with Professor Callaghan?'
'Professor Callaghan did his Christian duty,' Hamshaw responded piously. 'Sadly, some chose to misinterpret his actions.'
'And I understand that Professor Callaghan eventually made an approach to the bishop about Fisher's behaviour?'
'It was a collective decision. We decided we had no other option.'
'You said that Reverend Fisher was unpopular with parishioners, sir. Would you say that he made any real enemies?'
'Among our parishioners? I don't think we're talking about potential murderers here.'
'You'll appreciate we have to consider every possibility.' Winterman paused. 'It's even possible that there's a link between Fisher's death and the children's bodies.'
Hamshaw blinked, though his expression suggested simple puzzlement, rather than the apparent surprise that had crossed Callaghan's face at the same reference. 'I'm aware that Fisher found a body. Your colleagues spoke to me at the time because it was found on my land. A strange business. I'd assumed it had no connection with Fisher's death.'
'We can't ignore any possibility, sir.'
'You said "bodies". You've found another young girl?'
'That's right. Apparently a similar age. Funnily enough, sir, I believe this was also on your land.' He described the farmland opposite Mary's house.
Hamshaw nodded. 'Yes, that's mine. But, as you'll have discovered, Inspector, much of the land in these parts belongs to the Hamshaw estate. Is this a more recent body?'
'Not significantly. We're still waiting for the detailed report, but our assumption is that both bodies date from the same period, give or take a few months. Probably six or seven years.'
'Baffling. But it wouldn't be the first wartime oddity we've stumbled across and I don't imagine it'll be the last.'
'Oddity, sir?'
'People applied different standards.' Hamshaw's eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Winterman's face. 'We were all a little too close to death. We took it for granted.'
'Even the deaths of children, sir?' Winterman's face was mask-like, his tone emotionless.
'Plenty of people lost their children, Inspector. My own brother was killed in action. As for these children, who knows? I don't imagine that your investigations into their deaths are likely to progress very far after all this time.'
'We'll do our best, sir. The pertinent question is perhaps not who they were or why they were killed, but why their bodies have appeared now. That's why we can't write off a possible link with Fisher's death.'
'I wish you luck, Inspector. With both investigations. Do please let me know if I can be of any further assistance.' He pushed himself to his feet, signalling unmistakeably that the interview was at an end.
Callaghan had tried the same strategy, and Winterman had taken a mild delight in resisting his leaden hint. But when Hamshaw rose and ushered them politely but inexorably towards the front door, Winterman found himself unable to resist Hamshaw's air of patrician entitlement.
Outside, the chill air struck them full in the face. 'Well, Inspector,' Hamshaw said. 'I really do wish you luck. None of us likes the idea of there being a killer out there. Do let me know if I can be of any further assistance. Good day.'
'I'm quite sure we will, sir,' Winterman murmured to the closing door. A few more flakes of snow were beginning to fall.
'What do you think?' Winterman asked, as they made their way down the snow-bound path towards the car.
Hoxton turned up his collar against the thin but drifting snow. 'I think we'd better get back before this bloody weather gets any worse.' He trudged a foot or so behind Winterman. 'About Hamshaw? I'm not sure. Superior old bugger, I know that for certain. But I felt there was something he wasn't telling us.'
Winterman nodded, as if some hypothesis of his own had just been confirmed. 'Something significant?'
'Who knows? Maybe. Or perhaps just something sensitive he didn't want to share with the hoi polloi.'
Winterman waited while Hoxton fumbled with the icy locks of the car. 'Yes. That's pretty much what I thought.'
Chapter 31
They had
dropped Marsh in the village on the way out, and had arranged to meet him at Mary's house at the end of the day. Mrs Griffiths needed to be interviewed, alongside all the other villagers. Marsh had suggested Mrs Griffiths might be more relaxed in her daughter's presence, and so Mary had travelled back out with them.
By the time they arrived, the snow was coming down heavily again, endless white flakes roiling in the darkening air. Mary was peering out from behind the lace curtains apparently awaiting their approach, and had opened the front door by the time they had climbed out of the car. 'Get in here. We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you.'
Hoxton stamped cautiously along the path to the front door, his expression suggesting he might be about to lose his footing. 'Bloody weather happened to us. 'Scuse the French, lass.'
Winterman walked a few steps behind him, his hat tipped forward to keep the snow from his face. 'Weather's closing in. We'd best be getting back to town before it really comes down.'
Mary peered out into the swirling darkness. 'I think you're too late. You can't drive back in this.'
Hoxton had stopped at the doorway and was banging his heavy boots against the step to shake off the snow. 'Lass's right. The road was lethal even getting here. We'll end up in the dyke. Or worse.'
Winterman followed him into the house, scrubbing his feet on the doormat. 'So what do you suggest? It's already after four. We can't stay here all night.'
Mary was watching them from the doorway to the living room. 'We were just discussing that. We could put you up. Between us, I mean. We've got a spare room here. And Bryan's got a spare twin room over at the station.' She gestured behind her to where PC Brain was sitting, slouched in an armchair with the inevitable cup of tea balanced beside him. Opposite him, Marsh and Mrs Griffiths were sitting on the sofa. 'We could cope with the three of you for the night.'
Winterman stood in the doorway for a moment, feeling an unexpected awkwardness. 'That's very kind.' He addressed his words as much to Brain and to Mrs Griffiths as to Mary. 'I don't want us to take advantage. But we might not have much choice.' He glanced past Brain towards the still-uncurtained window. A constant barrage of white flakes beat against the glass, seething out of the darkness behind. 'We can wait a while though. See if things improve.'
'Come in and sit down,' Mrs Griffiths said. 'You look frozen.'
For the first time, Winterman realised that he really was cold and wet, icy water dripping from the hat he held in his hands. With numb fingers, he unbuttoned his heavy coat. Even in the short distance from the car to the front door, it had gathered a sodden weight. Mary took it from him and spread it out over the back of a kitchen chair. Hoxton had already removed his and was hanging it alongside.
'Don't lose the heat.' Winterman gestured towards the roaring open fire. 'You shouldn't waste coal drying my coat. You need to keep the house warm.'
In fact, the room was cosy enough, even allowing for the chill he and Hoxton had brought through the front door. The two children, Graham and Ann, were playing quietly in the far corner, furthest from the fire, a pile of battered die-cast metal vehicles spread between them. Everyone else was clustered around the crackling flames, warmed by the fire and by their collective body heat. Suddenly, Winterman felt less inclined to brave the frozen world outside, even if the snow were to lessen over the evening.
'How did it go?' Marsh leaned forward and held his hands out towards the fire. 'Anything useful?'
'Difficult to say, really,' Winterman said. 'We saw Callaghan's father and we saw Hamshaw.'
Mrs Griffiths glanced up. 'Lord Hamshaw,' she said, in a tone of the mildest reproof. Her tone implied that traditional niceties should be respected, regardless of what one might think of the individuals involved. It was probably what many people had fought the war for, Winterman thought.
'Lord Hamshaw,' Winterman corrected himself. 'Useful background, I suppose, but not much of substance. How'd you get on here?'
'Lots of elimination, to look on the bright side.' Marsh nodded towards Mary's mother. 'Mrs Griffiths has been very helpful. Gave us the names of all the best people to speak to in the village.'
Mrs Griffiths' warm smile demonstrated the pleasure she felt in the accolades. 'I didn't do much. I was just thinking of who might have known Mr Fisher. There aren't that many, I'm afraid. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but he wasn't a popular man.'
'Too right,' Hoxton said.
'There were a few people who knew him through the church, of course,' Mrs Griffiths went on. 'And a few who'd had disagreements with him.'
Winterman lowered himself on to the edge of the sofa, stretching out his damp shoes towards the roaring fire. He was a little unsure of the etiquette, wondering whether he should have removed the shoes before entering the room. 'Disagreements?'
Mrs Griffiths shook her head. 'I don't want to give you the wrong idea. I said that to young Paul here.'
It took Winterman a moment to recall that Paul was DC Marsh. He had already noted Marsh's apparent easy familiarity in the house, and he wondered about its significance. 'What sort of wrong idea?'
She looked momentarily flustered. 'Quite a few people were at loggerheads with him. But I wouldn't want you to think–'
'That they were responsible for his death?'
'Well, yes.'
'No, of course,' Winterman said. 'It takes more than dislike to lead to murder. But someone was responsible for his death.'
'But not someone from the village,' Mrs Griffiths persisted. 'Surely.'
'We don't know, Mrs Griffiths. That's the truth. Stranger things have happened.' He turned to Marsh. 'You managed to speak to some of the neighbours?'
'Most of them,' Marsh said. 'Bryan gave me a hand on the note-taking. We managed to cover most of the key villagers. There were only a dozen or so. There were a couple we couldn't find.'
'Probably away,' Brain added helpfully. 'I know one was visiting relatives in Lincoln. Probably can't get back with the weather.'
'I've got notes on the ones we haven't seen,' Marsh said. 'We can pick them up later.'
'Anything worthwhile in the rest?'
'Nothing very surprising. Plenty of anecdotes about Fisher. Sounds like someone who could start an argument in an empty room. But all trivial stuff.'
'Did Fisher have any other friends or acquaintances?'
'If he did, nobody seems to have been aware of them. A bit of a loner would be the polite description.' Marsh smiled. 'And there were plenty of less polite descriptions.'
'But no motive for his murder?'
'Not that I could see. I know you never can tell, but I can't really see any of the people we interviewed as potential murderers. Apart from anything else, I don't think their motives are strong enough. Most of them didn't seem that interested in Fisher. They just saw him as a sad old eccentric, stuck out there in his shabby old cottage. No one saw him much, except in his cups in the pub. And most of them stayed out of his way there.'
'What about the landlord? He must have a view about Fisher. Did you speak to him?'
'Not yet. Pub was all shut up when we went down there, and we couldn't get an answer at the door. Neighbours reckon the landlord usually gets forty winks before he reopens at six.'
'Sleep of the just,' Winterman said.
'Sleep of the just knocked back three large brandies, by all accounts.' Marsh started to laugh then fell silent at a disapproving glance from Mrs Griffiths. 'I thought we could perhaps go and have a chat with him later if the snow lets up. I don't imagine he's all that busy in this weather.'
'Any excuse.' Winterman smiled. 'But yes, why not? Once my feet have dried out I'll be only too keen to get them wet again. Okay, so that's the village largely accounted for. What about other possibilities? Dubious local characters? Outsiders?'
'Not much,' Marsh admitted. 'One or two had stories about delinquents – always from other villages or even coming in from the bigger towns – but we couldn't pin them down to actual names. And there were a few sto
ries about outsiders in the area. But nothing that sounded useful.'
'As you say, elimination. It had to be done, and you've got a lot further with it than I expected.' Winterman nodded to Brain. 'Thanks for all your help, Constable.'
The epithet sounded unduly formal, but Brain didn't seem to mind. 'Not at all, sir. My pleasure to help. Makes a change from the usual run of things round here.'
Mrs Griffiths pushed herself to her feet. 'You'll all be wanting some supper.'
'We shouldn't impose…' Winterman began, in automatic politeness. But the truth was that there were few options open to them, assuming they couldn't get back to town. He opened his mouth to offer some form of financial contribution, but realised any such offer was likely to be insulting. In any case, while Mrs Griffiths might not be wealthy, the real issue was likely to be simply a shortage of foodstuffs – the need to eke out their rations to feed so many people. 'That's very kind of you, Mrs Griffiths,' he said. 'Very kind indeed. Are you sure you've enough though?'
Mrs Griffiths looked at Winterman appraisingly, as though trying to calculate what sort of man he might be under the surface. 'I think we can cope.'
I'm sure you can, Winterman thought, as she turned and made her way slowly through into the kitchen. Her steady gaze had left him feeling uncomfortable. I'm sure you can.
Chapter 32
Supper was a convivial affair. Mrs Griffiths had produced a mutton stew which Winterman suspected had been intended to last several days, and which was more than ample to feed the assembled group. The mutton itself had little more than a token presence, enough to flavour the root vegetables that formed the bulk of the dish, but the meal was hearty and tasty.
'Lovely bit of grub.' Hoxton scooped up the last few dregs from his plate. 'You've done wonders, Mrs G. Surprised you can get veggies like that on the ration. Nice bit of mutton too.'
Mrs Griffiths glanced across the table to her daughter. 'We grew the vegetables ourselves, mainly. And we've a decent butcher in the village. He does what he can.'