Murder in the Cotswolds

by Guthrie, A. B. ;

  There were four chairs in the room, one of them a high-backed rocker, and a sofa, a desk with two telephones and a sheaf of blank paper on it, and a file drawer.

  “Fine,” Perkins said. “I’ll want to hear more from you later. Now we’ll have a look at the body.”

  “It’s at the undertaker’s, sir.”

  “At the undertaker’s!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not here at the hotel, in the room where it was found?”

  Doggett gulped, started to speak, and brought up his hands as if to explain.

  “Good God, man, you let the body be moved?”

  “I—I—didn’t see any choice, sir.”

  “No choice? You ignored a prime rule of investigation. What kind of an officer are you?”

  Doggett looked down at his moving hands, his face torn with distress.

  Before he could answer, Perkins added, “Let the body lie until after a proper examination. That’s the right procedure.”

  “I’m not a detective constable, sir. Just a constable.”

  Perkins wouldn’t let his tone soften. “All right. Why no choice?”

  “Rose Whaley, her that found the body, and Mrs. Vaughn, you must have met her—well, they was in a state, Mrs. Vaughn in particular. When she learnt of the death, her face went white. She fell to the floor. I thought she was going to die. She has a tricky heart to begin with.”

  “So?”

  “I tried to get the doctor, but he was out. I laid her out and put a cold pad on her head, and she come to, sort of, and what she said is still in my head. Her voice was like a scream. ‘Get it out, George! Out now! I’ll die!’ Then she said, kind of under her breath, ‘A dead man, killed, in my hotel.’”

  Doggett looked up, his eyes pleading, “That’s it, sir. I thought I was going to have two bodies on my hands. Two, one dead because I hadn’t took charge.”

  “No use to cry now. It’s too late.”

  “I guess I been in over my head.”

  “I guess you have. What about the man’s clothes?”

  “I got what he didn’t have on.”

  “And sealed the room?”

  “With everything out of it, I didn’t see a reason to do that. Mrs. Vaughn even had the bed stripped.”

  “Sergeant Goodman,” Perkins said, “please go seal the room. Then we’ll have a look at the body.” And then, he told himself, there’d be time to question those bloody Americans.

  Chapter Five

  It was well into the afternoon when Charleston slowed for the turn into the Ram’s Head. It had been a calm and peaceful day, and in his head were the memories of small villages, golden in the sun, of shaded lanes and the good smells of green and flowering things. But, nearing the inn, he said, “Some kind of trouble here, Geeta.”

  “Oh?”

  “Two cars, official, looks like, and there’s a dead wagon.”

  “Dead wagon?”

  “Meat wagon. Carriage for corpses.”

  “That’s dreadful talk. Somebody’s died?”

  “I guess. I’ll park over at the side.”

  Inside, Mrs. Vaughn was registering a couple with two fretful children. The man turned, the pen in his hand, and demanded, “Can’t you hush those kids?” The woman tried to. Americans probably, from their accents. Both worn out with kids and travel.

  Facing Charleston, Mrs. Vaughn put a shaking finger to her lips, cautioning him to be quiet, he supposed, not knowing about what. It was then that he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around. The man before him wore a blue suit and a tie of lighter blue. There was something military in his appearance. He motioned Charleston to one side. “May I have a word with you?”

  “Sure. My wife, too?”

  “Perhaps later. Now if you’ll just come with me.”

  “See you soon, Geeta.”

  The man led the way outside, around a corner, saying as they walked, “I’m Inspector Perkins of the Gloucestershire C.I.D.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Just come along, please.” He opened the door to a cottage in which three men sat. He said, “Mr. Charleston, here are Detective Superintendent Hawley, Detective Sergeant Goodman, and Constable Doggett.” He had inclined his head to indicate the men he introduced. “Please be seated, Mr. Charleston.”

  The superintendent sat behind a desk. He had shallow gray eyes and a face like a wedge, in which the mouth made a crosswise nick. Charleston glanced at the sergeant, who had taken a seat in the rear, a note pad before him. He was large and appeared capable. The constable looked like nothing much.

  Charleston took the seat indicated, opposite the superintendent. Perkins sat at his side.

  Hawley looked at the notes on his desk and inquired, “You are Charles Charleston.” He raised his eyes. A smirk touched his lips. “Can that be correct?”

  “It’s correct.”

  There was no depth in those gray eyes, no human kindness in the pinched mouth. If there was a soul anywhere, it was in hiding.

  “You are an American?”

  “Yep.”

  “Just touring Great Britain?”

  “Yep.”

  Hawley’s gaze went to Perkins. He gave a playful nod as he said, “We have a one-syllable man here.”

  Perkins said shortly, “He’s answering.”

  “Four syllables,” Charleston said. “What’s the trouble?”

  “First things first,” Hawley said, turning. He tapped on the desk with the end of a pencil. “Where were you last night and early this morning?”

  “I spent the night with my wife at Bourton-on-the-Water. At the Old Manse. I suggest you check there. We took our time getting back here today.”

  “But you were registered here at the inn?”

  “You know how us fool Americans are. Rich. We just throw our money around.”

  Hawley tapped harder on the desk. “This is serious business, Charleston. A man has been murdered.”

  “Oh. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’ve told you now. What do you do? What’s your line of work?”

  “I’m a public officer.”

  “That’s hardly specific. What kind of officer?”

  “Sheriff of my county.”

  Hawley rolled his eyes, maybe to indicate thought. “Sheriff? That’s almost an obsolete term in England. What’s your function? Collecting taxes? Serving papers?”

  Charleston glanced around, at Perkins, who gave him a little nod, at Goodman, who had raised his pencil, and at Doggett, who must have adenoids. Then he answered, “Same function as yours. Law and order.”

  “Any murder cases in your experience?”

  “A few.”

  “Naturally, you solved them all.”

  “Naturally. With good questions and maybe a little brain work.”

  Hawley put the pencil away with a certain air of decision. “I’ll tell you, then, that an American has been murdered. That makes the case unusual. It arouses the authorities. It puts us in a spot. The American Embassy will be on our necks. A right mess.”

  “Here at the inn.” It wasn’t a question, but Hawley answered. “Yes. In his room. Knife in the back.” Hawley bent forward. “His name was Oliver C. Smith. Do you know an American named Oliver C. Smith?”

  “No.”

  “What? Never even shaken hands with him, a lodger here like you and a compatriot?”

  “Not even once. But I did meet an Englishman by that name.”

  Hawley’s mouth fell open, what little there was of it. “Now say that again. An Englishman?”

  “You heard me.”

  “But how would you know?”

  “Hearsay. In your shoes I’d look at his passport.”

  Hawley drew in a whistling breath. It came out saying, “Jesus humble Christ! His passport!” He glared at the other men. “Doesn’t anyone around here ever have any bloody ideas?”

  Perkins spoke then, his tone acid. “No one but Mr. Charleston.”

  “Where i
s the bloody thing? Doggett, where?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s locked in the hotel safe along with his wallet and stuff.”

  “Get it!”

  Doggett knocked over a chair getting out. There was a silence until Hawley said, “Doesn’t that bloody constable know an English passport when he sees one?”

  “Probably not,” Perkins answered. “Probably he didn’t even inspect it.”

  “An Englishman,” Hawley said almost to himself. “Hmm.”

  The door burst open with Doggett saying, “Here it is, just like I said.” He gave it to Hawley.

  Hawley hardly needed to examine it. He nodded his head, then nodded again. “English all right. No Yankee embassy on our necks.” A little smile touched his mouth. A real smile, Charleston thought, would have cracked a lip.

  “Only a poor damn Englishman,” Perkins said, his tone still acid. “No big trouble. Still, it’s a case, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

  “Of course. It remains to put the suspects through the strainer.” Hawley didn’t know sarcasm when he heard it. Either that, or he didn’t heed it.

  “Now I’m beginning to wonder if the others are Americans.” Perkins said, as if the question had just struck him.

  “Make sure of that,” Hawley told him.

  “Oh, do you really think I should?” Perkins answered. It seemed to Charleston that he came as close to sneering as he dared.

  “You’ll find they’re American citizens,” Charleston cut in. “I know that much.”

  “Those damn Yankees,” Perkins said. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Charleston. I might as well have kept mum for all I could get out of them. Oh, I have their signed statements, but, hell—” He made an impatient gesture with one hand.

  “I thought they spoke English,” Superintendent Hawley said and waited on Perkins’s reply.

  “It’s English, all right. But Jesus. They’re a strange breed. I suppose you don’t find it so, Mr. Charleston?”

  “Nope. Not with most.”

  Abruptly Perkins turned to Hawley. “A bloody good idea. Listen to this. I want Charleston on my side. He can talk to those Americans. An ex officio helper, that’s what I mean.”

  Hawley shook his head, not vigorously. “Our department doesn’t need outside help.”

  “We need all the help we can get.”

  Hawley considered and then answered almost in a sneer, “Yeah. Maybe you do. Maybe you can use him. I wouldn’t, but it’s your case.”

  Charleston put in, “I won’t be here very long. A week’s stretching it.”

  Ridges had shown at the point of Perkins’s jaw, but now he said in cold even tones, “Not ‘use’ him. Wrong word. Benefit from his help.” Now he turned to Charleston. “I’m sorry. It seems I’m taking a lot for granted.”

  “I said I was here only briefly.”

  A look came on Hawley’s face, a look of thought or calculation, maybe of cunning. Who could read the mind of a hatchet? “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” he said softly.

  “I won’t have much time,” Charleston reminded them.

  “Two can take the blame easier than one,” Hawley said. His eyes were mean.

  Perkins was quick to ask, “How’s that?”

  “I mean in the event the case isn’t solved.”

  “I resent that.” A red flush climbed into Perkins’s face. “Since when have I dodged my mistakes? Since when have I put the blame on others? I take my knocks when they come.”

  “There’s been quite a lot of that lately,” the superintendent said wryly.

  Perkins said, “That’s shit.”

  “All right, Inspector. All right. Let it go,” Hawley said. He rose abruptly. “Have it your own way. Keep in mind it’s your case, like some others I might mention.” He stepped toward the door. “I’ll be off. The boys will be through, and we’ll get the body to Gloucester. You’ll get the reports when we have them.” He halted at the door. “Don’t let murder interfere with your dinner.”

  With the door closed, Goodman exploded. “That bloody bastard. Goddamnit, sir, a little more of that, and I’ll take him on.”

  Perkins put out his hand, his anger fading. “I know, my friend. I know. But let’s cool down.” His attention went to Charleston. “I hope, sir, you’ll lend us your help. I’d be grateful.”

  Charleston hesitated for only an instant. Then he said, “Long as I’m here.”

  Chapter Six

  Charleston went to his room, where he found Geeta reading the guidebook. She tossed it aside and said, “It’s about time.”

  “Patience, Geeta.” He moved over and kissed her.

  “You’ve been up to something,” she said, as if she knew it.

  “Not up. Hooked. Beached.”

  She waited, her eyes on him.

  “Murder,” he told her. “Murder here at the inn.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Our friend Mr. Smith. Found in his room early this morning with a knife in his back.”

  “That’s just horrible, Chick.” She paused and went on, “And what was the bait they used to get your help?”

  “I wouldn’t call it bait. A law officer’s got to assist if he can.”

  She sighed. “Even if not on his own turf?”

  “I doubt murder knows any boundaries.”

  “Clues?”

  “None. The four Americans are the prime suspects.”

  “Not the Witts!”

  “Who knows? Come along. Let’s eat. We’re late.”

  There were few people at dinner, and those few were well along with it. The four from Edinburgh were not among them. Observing the proprieties probably, Charleston thought.

  The waitress, Rose, who had served them before, came for their orders. She appeared subdued, with no greetings or smiles for them. Indeed the whole room was quiet, murmurous only, as if in the presence of death. The new chef was the exception. As the door to the kitchen swung open, Charleston caught a glimpse of him. In his white apron and tall chef’s hat, he seemed perky and satisfied. He was chunky, reminding Charleston of what a deputy had once proclaimed: If you want good food, find a fat cook.

  With Rose hardly out of earshot, Geeta said, “Tell me more, all you know.”

  He went over the afternoon, giving the facts and his impressions. Before he had finished, the girl came with their dinners. “Sketchy,” he said at the end. “I’ll know more presently. I promised to see Perkins again tonight.”

  “But, Chick, without knowing all about the case, how can you question the Americans?”

  “I thought of that. It’s sort of in for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “You’ll be totally involved.”

  “I hope I can play hooky once in a while.”

  She said, “So it’s goodbye to our vacation.”

  “Now, Geeta. Geeta. Is that fair?”

  It was an instant before she answered. “No, Chick, it isn’t.” She put out a hand to touch his. “I’m sorry. I’ve had almost three weeks of doing just what I wanted.”

  “What we wanted.”

  “I was being plain selfish.”

  “Just human, Geeta. Just human.”

  He went on, “I could hardly refuse Perkins when he asked. And the superintendent was such a jackass. Hold up. Wrong word. Denotes stupidity. The English would call him a bloody bounder. And besides, you’ll be busy chasing your ancestors.”

  She laughed then. “I knew I had lost you when I heard the word ‘murder’ in the lobby. But it’s all right. You’re you, and I’m glad of it.”

  Charleston nodded, feeling a great tenderness in him. “You’re the best, Geeta, the very best in the world.”

  When they had done with their coffee, he told her, “I really must go now. I don’t want to keep Perkins waiting. I’ll have more to tell you later.”

  Perkins, waiting in a cloud of pipe smoke, rose from his chair in the cottage and offered his hand. “Goodman and I just got here. Ate at one of the pubs. Leave it to Goodman to spot the good place
s.”

  Goodman, seated a short distance back, signaled acknowledgment of the remark.

  “Sit down, Mr. Charleston. Sit down.” Perkins motioned with his pipe and reseated himself behind the desk where Hawley had sat earlier. He pulled on his pipe and puffed out a stream.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Charleston said pleasantly.

  “Not in the presence of the most high,” Perkins said, grinning. “He has an allergy. Says he has, and makes a fuss.”

  “Some people do.”

  “Not you?”

  Charleston took a thin cigar from his pocket, saying, “This answer you?” He lit up.

  “Better air, tobacco smoke and all, with old poison-breath absent.”

  “Not for good, though?”

  “He’ll be sticking his beak in, never fear, but the fact that the victim is not an American has dulled his appetite. No big doings.”

  “He eats headlines,” Goodman interjected. “Got a real addiction.”

  “You’re pretty sharp with him sometimes,” Charleston told Perkins.

  “Not to worry. He’s impervious to gibes.”

  “Take a kick in the arse to impress him,” Goodman volunteered.

  “Let’s leave this dirty subject,” Perkins said, “and get on with the case. Some of the facts you already know or have suspected from what has been said.”

  Charleston nodded.

  “All right, then. Just to review things.” Perkins interrupted himself to relight his pipe. “Oliver C. Smith, an Englishman and guest here at the inn, was found dead in his bed at about ten-thirty this morning. A girl named Rose Whaley, who waits table and helps when she can with the rooms, discovered him. She ran, screaming I suppose, to the registration desk. Mrs. Vaughn, proprietor of the inn, called the constable, George Doggett, and Doggett called us.”

  Perkins put his pipe aside but only, Charleston supposed, for the moment. “There’s an immediate difficulty. There’s no scene of the crime.”

  “But …”

  “I know. A crime was committed, so there has to be a scene. But Doggett, that greenhorn, allowed the body to be removed to the mortuary, and Mrs. Vaughn, upset no end by the fact that a murdered body had lain in her inn, had the room dusted, wiped down and vacuumed immediately and then had the bedclothes thrown in the washer.” Perkins put a hand on his pipe, “All that was done before our arrival.”