THREE SILENT THINGS a cozy murder mystery (Village Mysteries Book 2)

by Margaret Mayhew

  She had tiptoed along the terrace and peered in at a window.

  A man had been sitting at a table and it had looked as though he was sewing something, though she couldn’t quite see what it was. There had been a younger man, standing at his shoulder – rather a handsome young man in a foreign sort of way. She had moved on.

  When she had reached the French windows she had stopped and peered in again. And that’s when she had seen Lois Delaney. There was no mistaking her because although she was a lot older, she still looked much the same. The hair would have been dyed now, of course, but very expensively by some London salon so that it looked quite real, and very well cut. If you could afford to spend a lot of money on nothing but the best hairdressers and cosmetics and on exclusive designer clothes, then you had a big and rather unfair advantage, in Miss Butler’s view. It was impossible, of course, on a small pension.

  The actress had been talking on the telephone. Miss Butler had watched her closely for a while. She had been speaking animatedly into the mouthpiece, running her fingers through the expensively-styled and dyed hair and, every so often, picking up a glass from a table to drink from it. It looked like tomato juice but somehow Miss Butler thought there was more to it than met the eye. She knew all about innocent-looking cocktails. Her father, for instance, had favoured Horse’s Necks which had passed, at a pinch, for plain ginger ale.

  As she had stood by the French windows, Lois Delaney had suddenly glanced in her direction and Miss Butler had been quite certain that she had seen her. She had drawn back at once and hurried away across the terrace and down the drive, hot with shame and embarrassment. What a terrible thing she had done, trespassing on private property and looking in people’s windows! There had been no question of her returning and no question of mentioning the incident to the colonel; or to anybody else.

  The younger of the two men was knocking at the door of Pond Cottage and Miss Butler adjusted the binoculars to see him more clearly. He looked very much like that unpleasant inspector who had been in charge of the investigation into Lady Swynford’s death and who had gone round upsetting everybody with his questions – herself included. Thank goodness she’d kept quiet about her little visit to the Hall. There was no reason for him to bother her this time. Miss Butler’s heart suddenly skipped a beat and her hand went to her throat. Unless, of course, somebody else had seen her.

  Six

  Detective Inspector Squibb wiped his feet on the mat and advanced into the hallway of Pond Cottage, his sergeant close behind.

  ‘Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind, sir.’ His manner made it clear that if the colonel did mind, it was too bad.

  He showed them into the sitting room and invited them to sit down. The inspector appropriated the wing chair by the fire while the sergeant, to Thursday’s disgust, parked himself heavily at the other end of the sofa, disturbing the cushions and the cat in the process.

  ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’

  ‘You said in your statement, sir, that you told Mrs Barnes to stay in the bedroom while you went into the bathroom?’

  ‘That’s right. It could have distressed her unnecessarily and there was also the danger of electric shock.’

  ‘Did you go back into the bedroom when you had discovered Miss Delaney?’

  ‘No. I called out to Mrs Barnes to phone the police. Then I stayed with the body until they came.’

  ‘So, in fact, Mrs Barnes was out of your sight. She could have touched or moved things without your knowing?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘She says she didn’t.’

  ‘Then I would believe her, Inspector. She seems a very trustworthy person.’

  ‘People do the strangest things, sir – often when they’re trying to protect someone. I’m not convinced that Mrs Barnes has told us everything. There was no suicide note found, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps Miss Delaney didn’t bother to write one.’

  ‘Suicides usually do. It’s all part of the drama they’re creating, and they often don’t want other people to get the blame.’

  The colonel recalled the young recruit in his company who had hanged himself and the gunner who had blown his brains out. Neither had left any kind of note. ‘In my army experience, that’s not always the case.’

  The inspector went down another track. ‘But we did find a large number of empty vodka bottles. Did you know that Miss Delaney drank?’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about her private life, Inspector.’

  ‘Mrs Barnes admitted that she used to clear out the empties every so often. She said Miss Delaney used telephone orders from an off-licence in Dorchester and they would deliver them.’

  ‘A lot of people do that. Myself included. It saves carting heavy bottles around.’

  ‘Her husband, Mr King, told us that she’d been drinking since before she met him. Apparently, she’d started when her career nose-dived and she wasn’t getting any more parts. She’d been in and out of one of those expensive drying-out clinics in London and when they got married she gave up the booze for several years, but then she went back on it again. He said she’d also been treated for depression and six months ago she tried to kill herself, swallowing a lot of pills with the drink. Luckily he found her in time.’

  ‘When did they separate, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘Three months ago. He suggested she take one of the flats at the Hall for the time being while the divorce was going through – until she’d decided where she wanted to live. He said she was getting a pretty generous settlement. She’d have no money worries.’

  ‘Mrs Barnes told me that Mr King came to see his wife at the Hall on New Year’s Eve. I wonder why?’

  ‘She’d asked him to. Wrote a letter to him just before Christmas, he said, and, as he happened to be going to inspect some property in the area, he decided to call by on his way back to London. He thought it would be some argument over the divorce – but instead she told him she’d been offered a leading part in a revival of a play. A West End theatre had apparently come up with an available slot and all that was needed was for someone to put up the cash. She asked him if he’d do it. Begged him – he said. Told him it would save her life – those were her very words to him.’

  ‘And did he agree?’

  ‘No, he refused point-blank. It was some old play that hadn’t been put on in London for years. Something called Hay Wire or Hay Wagon, I think he said.’

  ‘Hay Fever. It’s by Noël Coward.’

  ‘Before my time, I’m afraid, sir. Anyway, Mr King was sure it would flop and, in any case, he didn’t think his wife was up to it – physically, or mentally. She made a big scene, he said. Drunk and crying and yelling at him, but he stuck to his guns. Now, of course, he blames himself partly for what happened.’

  ‘You mean that she killed herself? But I don’t believe she did.’

  ‘Why is that, sir?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just a hunch.’

  The inspector smiled faintly. ‘I’m afraid the police need rather more than hunches, sir. We need evidence and, so far, all the evidence points to suicide. Miss Delaney’s state of mind, the disappointment over losing her one chance of making a big comeback, the fact that she was drunk, which would have affected any normal, rational judgement.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, it does seem to add up. But it’s a complicated way to have done it. An overdose of pills would have been so much easier and pleasanter.’

  ‘There’s always the risk of being found and revived, sir – same as happened before. It was quite easy, if you think about it. All she had to do was run the bath, plug the hairdryer into the electric power point outside the bathroom door, switch on, take it into the bathroom, get into the bath, start the dryer and put it in the water. Bingo!’

  ‘Why take all her clothes off? Would any woman want to be found like that? Particularly an older woman?’

  ‘She was an actress, sir. You know what they’re like. Show-offs. Proper drama queens. L
ike that woman floating along in that poem.’

  ‘The Lady of Shalott?’

  ‘That’s the one. They made us learn it at school and it went on for ever. I could still recite it. On either side the river lie . . .’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ the colonel said hastily. ‘It still seems odd though. Perhaps someone else got into the flat? An intruder? A deranged fan?’

  ‘It would have to have been somebody she knew to gain admittance. There’s a security system on the outer door and a peep hole in the flat door.’

  ‘Mrs Barnes said that Miss Delaney’s husband reported that the flat’s outside bell was faulty; he couldn’t make it work and had to use the caretaker’s bell.’

  ‘We checked the system but there doesn’t seem to be a anything wrong with it. Miss Delaney probably wasn’t answering, or didn’t hear it. In any case, it’s unthinkable that she would have admitted a complete stranger. Mrs Barnes said she was very jumpy about her security. That was one reason why she’d gone to live at the Hall. She felt safe there.’

  ‘What about somebody getting in through a window?’

  ‘The windows have very good security locks, sir, including the French windows leading on to the terrace. They were all closed and locked with no sign of tampering, bolts in place – and you can only do them from the inside. Also, there were no tracks in the snow outside. Not a single footprint.’ Another smile. ‘We do know our job, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, Inspector. But it snowed heavily for most of the night. Any tracks made earlier would have been obliterated.’

  ‘Like I said, sir, the fact is that nobody forced any of the windows or the doors. Nobody got in that way; or out either.’

  ‘Where were the keys?’

  ‘Where they were always kept – on a hook fitted beside the French windows for the purpose. Mrs Barnes showed us. They were all there.’

  ‘What about fingerprints?’

  ‘I can tell you read detective stories, sir! The only fingerprints on the windows or doors belonged to Miss Delaney and to Mrs Barnes, who did the cleaning.’

  ‘And in the rest of the flat?’

  ‘Just ones that had good reason to be there: Miss Delaney’s; Mr and Mrs Barnes’s; Miss Hayes’; Mr King’s and ones that belong to Mr Farrell, Miss Delaney’s son.’ Inspector Squibb paused. ‘We had some trouble tracking him down.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’d gone to a New Year’s Eve celebration in Scotland . . . some castle in the middle of nowhere. The party went on for a long time.’

  The colonel said drily, ‘The Scots take their New Year’s Eves very seriously.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Mr Farrell spent Christmas with his mother, you know.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Barnes mentioned that.’

  ‘You seem to have had quite a conversation with Mrs Barnes, sir.’

  ‘We have something in common, Inspector. We made the unfortunate discovery of Miss Delaney’s body together.’

  ‘Did she happen to speak of a Miss Quinn who lives on the first floor?’

  ‘No. But I think I met her when I was collecting for the donkey fund.’

  ‘I’ll bet she didn’t give a penny to it.’

  ‘People aren’t obliged to, Inspector.’

  ‘No, but I know the type, sir. Mean as anything. She seems to spend her time snooping. Told me she’d seen Mr King arrive and leave. And that she’d noticed one of the residents ringing the bell of Miss Delaney’s flat on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A Miss Jeanette Hayes. She lives on the top floor. Paints china plates for a living.’

  ‘Yes, I met her when I was collecting.’

  ‘Miss Hayes admitted to us that she went down around half past seven, to ask Miss Delaney if she’d like to have a New Year’s Eve drink with her. She thought she might be feeling lonely. But when there was no answer she gave up. I asked her why she didn’t just give her a ring – save her going all the way downstairs – but she didn’t have the number. It’s ex-directory.’

  ‘Did she know Miss Delaney?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She’d been living with her son, Rex Farrell, for several years till they split up. She knew her very well.’

  ‘That’s quite a coincidence.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it, sir? I thought so. In fact, she wasn’t the only resident who was acquainted with Miss Delaney. Mr Neville Avery told us he knew her. It seems he designed stage costumes for her some years ago.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘He makes dolls now. Dolls for grown-ups. People collect them, he said. It takes all sorts to make a world, doesn’t it, sir?’

  The colonel ignored the smirk. ‘Yes, it does, Inspector. Otherwise it would be a very dull place.’

  ‘Very true, sir. And by the way, our snooper, Miss Quinn, mentioned spotting something else, too. Not on New Year’s Eve, though. About two weeks ago she said she happened to be glancing out of her window one morning and she caught sight of a woman creeping along the terrace and looking in through the windows. She told us that the woman spent a long time outside Miss Delaney’s flat, spying on her.’

  ‘Another resident?’

  ‘No, she didn’t recognize her at all. Thought she must have been somebody from the village. She said she was elderly and dressed in navy blue – navy coat, navy lace-up shoes, navy felt hat. She noticed that there was some kind of gilt brooch on her coat lapel – the sort of thing someone connected with one of the Armed Services might wear. Does that description ring any bells with you, sir?’

  It did. But he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Inspector.’

  ‘Probably some old biddy trying to get a glimpse of her idol. Some obsessive fans will travel for miles and wait for hours. You’d be amazed.’

  What was amazing him at that moment was that Thursday was graciously allowing Sergeant Biddlecombe to tickle him under the chin. And not only allowing it but positively encouraging him – stretching his neck out, eyes shut in bliss. The picture of amiable docility.

  ‘Nice cat, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ve two of my own.’

  He could have told the sergeant that Thursday was anything but nice but he refrained, just as he had refrained from identifying the mysterious woman dressed all in navy blue with the service gilt brooch.

  ‘Well, if that’s all, Inspector . . .’

  ‘For the moment, sir. Our inquiries are ongoing.’

  ‘What does that mean exactly?’

  ‘That we’re exploring all possibilities.’

  When the two policemen had gone, he threw another log on the fire, reclaimed his wing chair, unpleasantly warm from Inspector Squibb’s backside, and sat thinking for a while, hands resting on the padded arms. Inspector Squibb hadn’t mentioned that Roy Ward had also been acquainted with Lois Delaney, which was rather odd. Unless he hadn’t known about it because Roy Ward hadn’t told him.

  He thought of another odd thing: if Lois Delaney had been intent on committing suicide, why on earth would she bother about putting pine essence in the bath water? Relaxation could hardly have been the uppermost thing on her mind. The inspector would no doubt have explained it as setting the dramatic scene.

  Thursday turned around twice to resettle himself on the sofa, rested his chin on his front paws and blinked his yellow eyes.

  ‘You’re a wicked old fraudster,’ the colonel remarked to the cat. ‘And so am I. Neither of us is to be trusted an inch.’

  Miss Butler had the colonel under close observation as he walked across the village green – though without the aid of the binoculars, this time. She had just happened to be doing a little dusting in the sitting room when she had caught sight of him coming out of his cottage. She watched him approaching, wondering where he was going, and was very, very surprised when he made directly for her gate and opened it. Good gracious, whatever could he want? The Save the Donkey collection had been safely delivered and counted, the leftover badges returned. The summer fête was months away, the church
yard grass would not need cutting till early spring and, in any case, the grass rota was not her concern: Mr Townsend was in charge of that. There was the coming jumble sale, of course, where she was manning a stall. Perhaps he wanted to contribute some old clothes? Or may be he was going to volunteer to help with another collection, which would be very good news, what with Major Cuthbertson being so unreliable. She had spotted the major going into the Dog and Duck and had her doubts that he had ever really been ill at all.

  The colonel gave a quiet knock at the door and Miss Butler stuffed the duster hurriedly into a drawer and went to answer it, feeling rather flustered. After all, she was not accustomed to receiving gentlemen at the cottage – except the vicar. The sitting room was very small, for one thing, and for another she felt it to be somewhat improper. Not that anybody took much notice of that sort of thing these days, of course, and the dear colonel was above suspicion.

  ‘Do come in, Colonel. I’m afraid you’ve caught me unawares. Everything in a bit of a mess.’

  She went ahead of him into the neat little sitting room and straightened cushions and the cloth on the side table, none of which needed straightening at all. He seemed to take up a lot of room and he could scarcely stand upright because of the low ceiling. Fortunately, the new vicar was a much smaller man.

  ‘Do mind your head on the beams, won’t you? Would you like some tea?’ She was wondering anxiously if he would mind the cheap kind she always bought. Perhaps he usually drank Earl Grey? Or some kind of Chinese tea, since he had spent many years abroad?

  But, no, he didn’t want any tea, so they sat down and he smiled at her in a reassuring sort of way.

  ‘I’m very sorry to intrude like this, Miss Butler.’

  ‘Oh, not at all, Colonel. Not at all.’ What on earth could he want? She fussed a little with her navy cardigan, pulling the sleeves further down at her wrists.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind. It’s about Lois Delaney.’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘Miss Delaney? Whatever do you mean?’