A Shadowed Livery

by Charlie Garratt

  She was perfectly open about her movements after the deaths of the Barleighs and Jenny Bamford. After she’d left Tom on the side lawn she went up to her room and began packing. She was leaving anyway straight after the wedding because Lady Isabelle had fired her a few days earlier. Collinge said she heard the two shots but assumed, like Sir Arthur, that it was nothing out of the ordinary. It was only when she was sent for and went downstairs she realised, as she put it, ‘her world had fallen apart’. She had returned to her room and finished packing, leaving the house shortly afterwards. She apologised for not waiting to talk to the police but said she’d been devastated by Tom’s death and needed to get away as quickly as possible. I found it odd she used the same excuse as Gerald Bamford but I suppose it’s a normal enough reaction in those close to anyone suffering a violent death. Different folks react differently: some need to stay close to their loved ones, others seek the solitude of their own thoughts and grief.

  ‘I went to stay with my sister in Leamington and after a few days I met up with an old friend who told me of the possibility of a position in the place where she worked, a private nursing home close by the Royal Pump Rooms.’

  The spa waters were not as popular as they’d been fifty years ago, but enough elderly people will still pay good money to stay where they can regularly ‘take the waters’. As a result, several establishments catering for them exist in that part of the town. They vary in quality from decrepit lodging houses to swanky establishments with all the grandeur of the better class of hotel. I asked the nurse about the one where she was now employed.

  ‘It’s one of the middling ones, looking after what the matron calls “faded gentlefolk”: teachers, accountants, low ranking army officers and the like. Many of them are seriously ill and trying to find any way they can to prolong their lives. Clinging to their belief that the mysteries of the spring waters will succeed where all the doctors have failed.’

  ‘It seems a strange choice of position for you to take up, having fled from three deaths only to now find yourself surrounded by them virtually every day.’

  She simply shook her head and said she’d always tended the sick and dying but it was the violence at Grovestock House that had made her run away.

  Collinge had been working in the hospital Tom Barleigh was taken to after his car accident. He’d been close to death several times and the medical staff held out little hope for him surviving.

  ‘Some said it would be a blessing if he went as he’d never walk again, but I could never accept that view. He was a fine looking young man, right at the beginning of his life, why should it be snatched away so cruelly? Though he was unconscious or drugged and I’d never spoken to him, even from those early days I knew we’d be friends if he could just make it through.’

  There was an intensity in her voice that was somehow disturbing. Both Cudlip and Haleson had commented she’d been besotted with Tom Barleigh and believed he would throw Jenny over for her. Her eyes darted about the room as she spoke and her mood seemed to shift from being calm to being extremely agitated.

  ‘I stayed up with him night after night until he was through the worst. As he recovered we became closer. I was the one he trusted to take him for walks, read to him, and to select his clothes when he had visitors.’

  ‘And you stayed with him when he left the hospital? You gave up your secure employment to follow him to Grovestock House?’

  ‘You make it sound strange, Inspector. What else should I do? Tom trusted me and there was a job to be done. Who better than me to do it?’

  ‘It sounds like more than simple devotion to a sick patient, Miss Collinge. Were you a little bit in love with him? Is that what it was?’

  She sat up straight in her chair and fixed me with her deep brown eyes.

  ‘We were in love, Mr Given, not only me!’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  Trudi Collinge laughed sharply. She sounded on the edge of hysteria suddenly, fleetingly.

  ‘Tom didn’t have to tell me how he felt. I’d see it in the way he looked at me and spoke to me. He told me I was his one true support and he didn’t know what he’d do without me. If that’s not a sign of love I don’t know what is.’

  Sawyer, who was standing behind the woman, caught my eye and made a circular motion with his index finger against the side of his head. He moved to the side wall and picked up on my thread, trying to shake her up even more.

  ‘But surely he simply meant he needed you to look after him. The poor man was useless himself, couldn’t even get in and out of bed on his own.’

  ‘No, no, that’s not how it was! He was going to finish with his fiancée and marry me.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Miss Collinge, Tom was never going to marry you.’ Sawyer moved in close. ‘You’re just a sad, lonely woman who’s fallen for one of her betters and made a fool of herself.’

  Sawyer never knew what hit him. In a flash, Collinge swung her hand up from her knee and slapped him full across the face. Next thing, she was cursing and gouging chunks out of his cheek with her nails. He made to slap her back but I got between them, pushing her back into her seat and him against the wall. Collinge’s handbag fell to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere.

  ‘Sawyer! Stop! And you, calm down!’

  Fortunately, he quickly regained his composure and I was able to hold Collinge’s wrists until she’d done the same. I told Sawyer to clear up the handbag while we all relaxed. Only when I was sure it was safe to do so, I let Collinge free and stepped back.

  ‘Is that why you killed them all?’

  ‘What?’

  She made as if to jump from her seat and attack me this time but Sawyer was behind her in a second, pinning her arms to the chair. Although I was loath to do it to a woman, I ordered Sawyer to use the handcuffs. It seemed the only way of keeping her temper in check. The nurse struggled briefly then stopped and looked up.

  ‘Why would I murder Tom? He and I were going away together. I loved him and he loved me. There was no need to hurt anyone.’

  ‘If that were true I wouldn’t have pulled you in here, would I, Miss Collinge? But it isn’t true, is it? When Lady Isabelle heard of your infatuation with her son she dismissed you. When Tom Barleigh himself tried to put you off, you wrote to him threatening to kill Jenny. That’s really the truth of it and it looks a very strong motive to me.’

  ‘No, it’s not true. I didn’t threaten to harm Jenny Bamford. Who told you I did?’

  ‘You wrote a note to Tom saying he’d have to get rid of his fiancée or you’d do it yourself. Sounds like a threat to me.’

  She bowed her head.

  ‘The note was a mistake. It was a threat, Inspector, but not in the way you mean. I just wanted to scare Tom into action. All I meant was I’d tell Jenny about us if he didn’t. That’s all.’

  ‘Do you think she did it, sir?’

  Sawyer had been to get his face cleaned up and joined me in the canteen for a cup of tea. Collinge was down in the cells whilst we considered what to do next; if nothing else, she had assaulted a police officer.

  ‘I’m far from certain, John, I really am. She’s the only one we’ve found so far who had any reason to kill anybody, but it doesn’t mean she did. She certainly seemed to fly off the handle quickly enough, so she has a temper on her. How’s the war wound, by the way?’

  He gingerly stroked his left cheek and flinched.

  ‘Bloody hurts, begging your pardon, sir. Hope her nails were clean.’

  ‘Well, at least she doesn’t seem to have done any permanent damage.’

  ‘I was thinking about how she exploded like that, sir. Could I ask you if you thought she had a cold?’

  ‘A cold? Not that I noticed. Why?’

  ‘It’s just when I was picking up the stuff from her bag I noticed she had three nasal inhalers.’

  ‘Maybe she had a cold and just forgot to take them out of her bag.’

  ‘But three, sir? Why three?’

 
‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at, John, you’ll have to enlighten me.’

  ‘I was reading about them recently, sir, and the drug they contain, Benzedrine, is apparently addictive. The article I read said it keeps you awake and one of the other side effects for people badly hooked is they have wild swings of mood. Calm one minute and raging with anger the next. Sounds like Collinge, don’t you think?’

  ‘So you think she might have murdered Tom Barleigh and the others in a frenzy brought on by this drug?’

  ‘I doubt it would have been enough on its own but if she was already angry it may have pushed her over the top. But it wouldn’t explain why she killed Billy, nor really why she’d kill Jenny. What would be the point? If he’s dead there’s no need to murder the girlfriend as well. I can see why she’d have gone after Lady Isabelle, just to get even for humiliating her and giving her the sack, but not the others, unless she really was off her head and decided to put an end to Jenny for causing all of this.’

  Once again Billy’s murder proved a stumbling block. Could it be, after all, that Billy’s death wasn’t connected to the others? Was it an accident? I asked Sawyer.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Are you suggesting Billy bashed his head in the yard, badly enough to cut off two of his fingers, fell semi-conscious to the ground and then dragged himself into the barn to die? Hardly seems likely, does it?’

  ‘Not when you put it like that, John, I suppose it doesn’t.’

  Nothing resembling a weapon emerged from the search of Collinge’s sister’s house, though the nurse could have disposed of it anywhere. Needless to say, she continued to deny any involvement in the killings of the Barleighs and Jenny Bamford. We didn’t have any firm evidence against her so had to let her go after letting her sweat for a few hours.

  Apparently, Sawyer’s hunch about her addiction was correct. She was climbing the walls of her cell when he went down to talk to her, shaking and swearing in equal measure, though her earlier violence didn’t return. When she was released and given back her things, she dived into her handbag and pulled out a Benzedrine stick. She took in two long draws before even putting on her coat. As a result of this show, Sawyer wanted me to pull her back in again but I told him we’d leave it a while. He argued with me for some time, saying she was the strongest suspect we’d got. I had to agree with him but we had nothing, other than confirmation of her addiction. He wouldn’t let it go so I had to put my foot down and insist we move on to something else.

  So we were back to square one, now with up to four murders and no viable suspects. What was I missing? The same questions kept coming back over and over again. Could Billy’s death be unconnected to the others? Did Jenny Bamford kill herself in grief as reported, not for the loss of Tom Barleigh but for losing the financial security which went with him? If Billy had been killed by a second person then we were going down the completely wrong path and Gerald Bamford and Trudi Collinge were still in the frame. If Jenny had committed suicide, the picture and the possibilities changed again. It felt like a good time for Sawyer and me to take a fresh look at everything we’d discovered. So I let him go for the night, asking him to prepare for the job next day.

  Adkins popped his head out of the public bar.

  ‘There you are, Inspector, I’ve been keeping my eye out for you for a while. Do you have a minute?’

  I followed him into the snug, which was deserted, and sat down with him, declining the pint he offered. What he told me made my skin run cold.

  ‘I thought I should have a word, Mr Given. There’s been two men looking for you. Normally I’d have just pointed them in the direction of your cottage but I didn’t really like the look of them. Wops, they were. Shiny black hair and dark skin. Spanish or Italian possibly. Asking all sorts of questions about if anyone knew you, where you worked, where you lived, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Did anyone tell them anything?’

  ‘I don’t think so. At least, not when I was there. Old Tommy Barber was about to say something but I gave him a filthy look and he buttoned his lip. I expect if they came in here they’ll have been in other pubs as well so someone might have told them something.’

  I thanked him for letting me know and asked him to contact me straight away if they came back. So, on top of everything else, the Demmas had caught up with me. There were only three people who knew I was looking for them and could have told them where I was. I couldn’t believe it would have been Gerry Costello or Dyer, which left only one other person. Terry Gleeson.

  A few hours and several pubs later, I was sitting in the smoke room of the Blue Pig on Kenilworth high street. The landlady, Jessie Phipps, confirmed that a couple of ‘Italian-looking gentlemen’ had been frequenting her establishment for the last two weeks, drinking and playing cards until closing time each night. She’d overheard them asking questions about someone who she thought, from their description, must be me. She wasn’t aware of anyone giving them information but was happy enough for me to hang around to see if they came back. I have to say I wasn’t too sure what I’d do if they did.

  Jessie let me use her telephone to ring Gerry. There was no answer. Over the next half hour I tried him again several times with the same result. Nothing.

  At the next table was a group of men playing cards, manual workers by the looks of them. They appeared to have come in straight from work; the faces of two were covered with dirt and their clothes were far from their Sunday best. They also laughed out loud and poured scorn on each other’s tactics, driven, I suspect, by the substantial quantities of beer they’d consumed. One, in particular, seemed to be losing heavily but still kept his place at the table and pretended the same high spirits as his companions.

  A gambling habit’s a strange thing. It’s hard to work out whether playing or winning — or losing — is the most important. To a non-gambler it would look like the lure of the big prize drags the gambler in, but his compulsion is more about pitting his wits against the odds. Against an opponent who has drawn a luckier hand or on a horse that has as much chance of winning as every other horse in the race. It’s the thrill of possibly losing everything or winning everything. One man I knew once said the best part for him is when he has no money left, so he has to stop. Because he can’t stop on his own account. A helpless gambler will often give most of his winnings away, only keeping enough for his next stake. So it’s not about acquiring wealth either.

  I have this addiction. I used to drink all night and play anyone willing to shuffle and deal the cards, anyone who’d put a few shillings on the table and play his hand against mine. Sometimes I’d win and sometimes I’d lose. As I became more experienced I fancied I’d win more often but really, deep down, I knew I always lost in the end. I was a loser because I wasn’t in control. I was good at the game. I’d a memory for numbers and sequences and could often read what my opponent might have in his fist and be planning to play next. So this gave me the illusion I was in charge. Then, out of the blue, he’d play something different, or would hold cards I hadn’t imagined he had. Then the excitement would really begin. My mind would spin with all of the combinations that might take me to be the victor, rather than the defeated, in this battle of wills. But it was all illusion. Cards come out of a pack entirely by chance, not through any mathematical rules. To be able, in reality, to discern what cards an opponent might hold borders on the magical, rather than the logical. I’m intelligent enough to know this but it still didn’t stop me.

  Then Heather came along. She believed something was missing inside me which made me continue with this drinking and gambling. She also seemed to know it wasn’t about whether I won or lost but about getting back my dignity. So I might see myself without the cards or a rum bottle on the table in front of me.

  She didn’t quite succeed, but at least now I don’t drink and when I pick up a pack I play against the cards themselves. I play patience. I deal the cards. I turn them over. If I’m lucky, the sequencing allows me to complete the game. If I’m not lucky,
I can accept I’ve made a mistake or the cards weren’t right in the pack in that game. I’ve lost no money. More importantly, I’ve maintained my self-respect and I’ll always be in Heather’s debt for it. She once told me if I was deluded enough to think I was the best card player around I might as well play against myself. That way I’d always be guaranteed to win.

  I don’t even play patience often any more, but when I do it can go on well into the night. When I’ve a particularly difficult case I occasionally feel the cards can provide the distraction I need. I find it helps me focus more effectively when I return to the task in hand.

  I watched these men at the next table dealing their hands of cribbage, laughing and joking. They marked their progress with matchsticks in a well-used board, swapping pennies as each round was completed, and mocked the mistakes of their opponents. And I ached to join them. I stood up and walked across. I wanted so much to sit down, roll up my shirt sleeves and feel the thrill again of turning the cards with like-minded companions. Instead, I headed for the door and out into the night to hide and wait for the Sicilians in a nearby doorway. An hour later there was still no sign and the pub was emptying. I tried Gerry one last time from a nearby telephone box but with no luck so I called it a night.

  The castle and the streets around it were in total darkness, the lights from the town not extending this far. I reached my front door and immediately tensed. It was open. I went inside and put on a light. My living room was in complete chaos. Papers were strewn around the floor, cushions ripped open and cupboards thrown to the ground.

  I ran upstairs and the same scene greeted me in my office, absolute disarray. I went through to my bedroom. At first I thought it had been spared. Then I noticed the file on Heather’s murder lay on my pillow, a carving knife stabbed through it.