Murder in the Cotswolds

by Guthrie, A. B. ;

  A knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Brownlow entered. She asked brightly, “Is there something I can bring you?”

  Mr. Steele stirred and answered, “It’s too late and also too early for tea. Isn’t that so?”

  “I really don’t want anything,” Geeta said.

  “I just thought I’d ask.”

  Mrs. Brownlow was about to depart when the old man spoke again. “Now hold on. Hold on. Not time for tea, but how about a little drink?” An upheld hand stayed Mrs. Brownlow. “I usually have one about this time. Doctor’s orders.”

  Mrs. Brownlow sniffed.

  “How about it, Miss? It’s single malt and good for the system.”

  “If you really would like one.”

  “Bring it on, Mrs. Brownlow.”

  Mrs. Brownlow left and returned with a bottle, a pitcher of water, and glasses. “I’ll pour for Mr. Steele,” she said.

  “Now don’t you scant me.” He turned to Geeta. “She don’t trust me with a bottle.”

  Mrs. Brownlow handed him his glass, then asked Geeta, “Will you pour for yourself?”

  “Please.”

  After Geeta had taken a couple of spoonfuls and added water, Mrs. Brownlow took the bottle and left the room.

  Mr. Steele said, “You’d think at my age I could misbehave all I wanted or was capable of, but there’s always a woman around to insist on what’s good for me. Good for me, hell. What do I care? Why should I care?”

  “For the sake of people who care for you,” Geeta answered. “They don’t want to lose you.”

  “All right. All right. More woman-talk from you.” He took a small swallow. “I shouldn’t complain. Mrs. Brownlow’s a good woman.”

  “That’s certainly my impression.”

  “Now don’t you go telling me she means well. People who mean well have done more wrong than God can count. It must tickle Him. God’s got a mean sense of humor.”

  A glint of mischief appeared in the old eyes and as quickly died away.

  “Anyhow, you mind what she says, if I dare tell you that.”

  “Tell me anything. It doesn’t matter.” He drank the last of his drink and hunched back, putting his uncovered hand back under the robe. He closed his eyes. “Bloody thing to be tired all the time.” The words came out in a mutter and ended in a slow whisper.

  “I’m ever so grateful, Mr. Steele,” Geeta said. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  Mr. Steele didn’t answer. His chest rose and fell to his slow breath.

  Geeta tiptoed from the room. At the door she said to Mrs. Brownlow, “I’m so sorry. I tired him out. He went to sleep.”

  “Now don’t you worry. He does that. Just drops off, sometimes in the middle of a sentence.”

  Geeta said goodbye and thanks and left the house.

  The street had come alive—men, women, children, a dog or two, people with smiling faces, people with sober ones, pausing to look in windows or at open displays, taking time to chat, walking on. It was as if householders left their homes just to mingle with others. Some carried small baskets or sacks, as if they shopped every day. Perhaps they had to, buying just a couple of chops or a small portion of cheese or just a vegetable or two because they lacked freezers or refrigerators. Whatever the reason, it made for social gatherings that argued somewhat against the American practice of stocking up.

  The church stood down and across the street. Uncertain whether to visit the vicarage adjacent to the church or the church itself, she entered the latter.

  The place was dark and empty except for one woman near the front who seemed to be praying. She looked vaguely familiar. No one answered Geeta’s knocks at the side doors.

  She retreated and went to the vicarage, where a neat, small, jacketed man, his tie firmly in place, came to the door. “Good morning,” he said brightly as he swung it open. “I’m the new vicar, Richard Jackson. Just tell me if I may be of help.”

  Without entering, she told him her purpose.

  “To be sure. To be sure,” he answered. “The records room is at one side of the church. Will you come with me?”

  In the church the woman was still praying. They went into the side room, where the records lay, pile on pile. “Do you have an idea of the dates?” he asked.

  “Not much,” she replied. “Somewhere in the eighteen eighties, I would guess.”

  “The name again, please?”

  “Hawthorne.”

  He consulted an index book. “Oh, yes, yes,” he said. “Here it is. Now, just a minute.”

  With her help he wrestled the volume he wanted from underneath others. “Not such a chore as I feared.” He laid the volume on a table. “The first note of Hawthornes in the eighties occurs on page thirty.”

  She took a note pad and a pencil from her purse and turned to the page. All right, there was Cassius, with birth date and parentage, and ten pages later she found Augustus. They were sons of Julian and Edith Hawthorne, of whom there was no further mention.

  “I suppose they left for other parts,” the vicar said. He looked at her, sunny-faced, as if glad to have been of assistance.

  “You’ve been very helpful, and I thank you,” she said. “Now let me put things back.”

  “Not to worry. The sexton will do that.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have asked for him.”

  “It would not have availed you, I fear,” he answered with a smile. “He’s on vacation.”

  Outside, she decided to call on the grocer, Mr. Ebersole, slim though the chances were there. Her route home led past the store. At least she could buy some wine.

  The place was packed with fresh fruits and vegetables, canned goods, cookies, and bottles of wine, all tidily arranged.

  A small, stooped man without a jacket came to wait on her, his old eyes expectant. His black suspenders contrasted with a white shirt. “Yes, lady,” he said.

  “I’d like some white wine, dry, and not too expensive.”

  He nodded. The years had worn tracks in his face, but his eyes were bright. Geeta guessed his age at eighty or almost.

  “Of course,” he answered. “There’s a great deal of nonsense about wines, vintages and all that, but I stock a very good French white wine that’s not too expensive.”

  “And not sweet.”

  “Assuredly not.” He nodded his head at her, as if the two of them knew a thing or two. “It’s the uneducated palate that likes wine sweet.”

  Another customer entered and began examining the vegetables, but the grocer seemed in no hurry. “I hope you’re enjoying the Cotswolds,” he said.

  “Very much, thank you.”

  He rubbed his hands and nodded his head. “A pleasant country,” he said. “Not much given to change. I’ve lived here a long time, though I’m not a native.”

  “Is the name Hawthorne familiar to you?”

  “Hawthorne? Well, yes, from a long time ago.” He half-closed his eyes, trying to recall.

  “It was my maiden name, so I’m interested.”

  “Going back, before I moved here, there was a family named Hawthorne, so I’m told. Man and wife and two sons, as I remember. Scots, they were. When the two sons left home, the old people went back to Scotland. That was the story I picked up.”

  “They were my people.”

  Mr. Ebersole smiled benignly. “Fine. Then to go on, there was a lady by the name of Hawthorne who lived in the village for a time. That must be twenty-odd years ago. Hannah Hawthorne. Yes,” he went on, agreeing with his memory, “that was her name.”

  The voice of a customer rose. “Mr. Ebersole, I’ve got to pay and leave.” Even as he called, two more customers entered.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, please,” Mr. Ebersole said. “Coming on to my busy time. Can’t we talk later, maybe the middle of the morning sometime, when trade drops off?”

  “Surely. I understand,” she answered.

  Bottle, umbrella, and purse in hand, her bill paid, she left the shop.

  Chapter Eight
r />   Perkins and Goodman were already in the cottage when Charleston entered after breakfast. “All quiet in the incidents room,” Perkins said by way of greeting.

  “So that’s what you call this?”

  “That’s it. Headquarters for the time being. Place for reports, interviews, phone calls, and deep thinking. Sit down, Mr. Charleston.”

  Charleston sat, lighted a thin cigar and said through the smoke, “I answer to Chick.”

  “Fine. Call me Fred then. Tarvin should be here any minute. By the way, the inquest is set for two o’clock tomorrow. You needn’t attend. Up to you.”

  “About this Tarvin, and being in jail.”

  “Yes, but how long in jail? Did Doggett let him out early, say about midnight or so? Did Doggett remember to lock him in? If he did get out, was Tarvin sober enough to kill a man? A lot of questions.” He shifted impatiently. “Where the hell is Doggett? Where’s Tarvin?”

  As if he had heard him, Doggett opened the door then and let in another man before he entered himself. The man might have been an athlete once. His shoulders were broad and his arms heavy, but his belly bulged over his belt, and the cheeks of his broad face were swollen and drooping. His gaze, though, was direct.

  “Good morning,” Perkins told him. “Good of you to come in. You’re Tarvin? Peter Tarvin? Fine. Won’t you sit down?” Perkins motioned to a chair next to Charleston’s, and Tarvin took it, breathing short.

  “You’re a salesman, Mr. Tarvin, and—”

  “Sales representative.”

  “Yes, of course. And you were a guest at the Ram’s Head Inn night before last?”

  “If you know, why ask me?”

  Charleston hadn’t expected that from the man.

  “Just to be sure,” Perkins answered, unaffected. “You know a man was murdered here that night, the twenty-first, or early the next morning?”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I heard so.”

  “All right. He was.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” Tarvin wasn’t exactly belligerent, just difficult, Charleston thought. In the rear of the room Goodman was taking notes. Doggett listened with his mouth open.

  “I don’t know that it has anything to do with you. Maybe no. Maybe yes. That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  “The answer is not anything. Not one damn thing.”

  “You got drunk in the bar at the inn night before last.”

  “I’m not denying that, nor bragging about it, either.”

  “You not only got drunk, you got quarrelsome, wanted to fight anyone and everyone.”

  Tarvin nodded soberly. “That could be.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Very little. I draw blanks when I drink. But I do get mood changes from whisky. I know that. And I’ll say what you’re thinking. I’m a bloody fool to drink if it makes me mean.”

  Charleston dropped his cigar in a tray.

  “Do you remember being jailed?”

  “I remember being let out. That’s all.”

  “Who jailed you?”

  Tarvin motioned. “I suppose it was the constable here, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

  “It was Doggett all right, but he had help.”

  “You can’t prove it by me.”

  “His help was Oliver Smith. Ever hear of him?”

  “Just now.”

  “It was Smith who got it. Stabbed through the heart.”

  “So what?”

  “What do you have to say?”

  “Just this. If you’re trying to fasten that killing on me, that’s ridiculous. Who am I, Batman or something, able to fly out a jail window or pass through a locked door? Of all the bloody ideas!”

  “But if you don’t remember getting drunk and being jailed,” Charleston interrupted, “then you wouldn’t remember getting up and getting out and stabbing a man, would you?”

  “Mister, when I pass out, I pass out. No waking, no moving until I wake up in the morning with a head nobody would believe. Jesus is witness to that.”

  “He’s absent,” Perkins answered, making a mouth. “Now, could you have got out of jail once you were put there?”

  “Through a locked door?”

  “But was the cell locked?” Perkins turned. “Constable Doggett, how about it?”

  “I always lock it.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question. Did you lock it after putting Tarvin inside?”

  “That’s my memory, sir.”

  “Memory be damned. Are you sure?”

  Tarvin interrupted. “I can answer for him. It was the cell door being unlocked that woke me up. It makes a screech.” He added, looking around, “Like somebody forgot to oil it. Poor upkeep, I would say.”

  Charleston smiled inwardly.

  “I got no call to use it much, sir,” Doggett answered.

  Perkins spoke to Charleston. “Any more questions?”

  “Maybe just one. Mr. Tarvin, you say you draw blanks when you’re drunk. You wouldn’t remember then if you did get out of bed, get out of the jail, go to the inn and murder a man. Is that right?”

  Tarvin looked Charleston in the eye. “Mister, I tell you this. Without sleeping the drunk off like I did, I couldn’t have hit the ground with my hat.”

  Perkins moved in his chair before saying, “All right, Tarvin. We’ll want you to sign a statement that Sergeant Goodman will prepare. Then you may go. But we’ll want to know how to get in touch with you, just in case.”

  Tarvin stood up, searched in his wallet, got out a card, and presented it. “My company knows where I am day to day.”

  “Thank you.”

  After Tarvin had signed the statement and let himself out, Charleston said, “He’s one independent character.”

  “Good on the defensive,” Perkins said. “Knows how to—what is it?—yes, pass the buck. Wouldn’t you say so, Doggett?”

  “I say nothin’ against him, sir. He spoke up for me.”

  “So he did.” Perkins stretched. “I don’t know about you, but I need a breath of fresh air.” He stood up and walked out, the others following.

  Outside, Perkins drew Charleston away a few steps and said, “We have those first statements of the Americans, as you know. About all we learned was that Smith and Mrs. Post were brother and sister. If there’s anything more to be found, and there damn well must be, we’ll have to dig it out. Problem there.” He rubbed his chin with one hand. “But I’ve got an idea. Leave them alone for now. What I’m thinking of is clearing away the underbrush meanwhile, the help and all that. What do you say?”

  “Let the foreigners sweat, huh?”

  “Something like that was in my mind. It won’t hurt them to stew.”

  Charleston grinned at him. “Shame on you, treating my fellow Americans that way.”

  “Anything wrong with that?”

  “Not a thing in the world. Nice and foxy. Go to it.”

  Abruptly Charleston put out a restraining hand as Perkins turned to go back inside. “Fred, I’m just wondering. I don’t quite know why. Could we talk first to that girl, Rose what’s-her-name, who found the body?”

  “We’ve already got her statement.”

  “It was just a notion.”

  “What I need is notions,” Perkins said and called out, “Sergeant Goodman.”

  Goodman came up, saying, “Sir?”

  “Would you see,” Perkins continued, “if it’s convenient for Rose Whaley to see us now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Goodman walked away, Perkins said, “I could have told him to fetch her, whether or not, but no. Not me.”

  They went back into the cottage, leaving the door open at Perkins’s suggestion. Doggett followed them. “Stuffy, even outside,” Perkins said. Seated, he loaded and lighted his pipe. Outside a dog barked, breaking the morning’s stillness, and quit as a man scolded it.

  Goodman entered with the girl, saying, “Miss Whaley, sir,” and pro
ceeded to his seat in the rear.

  “Good morning, Miss Whaley,” Perkins said. “I hope we’re not interfering too much with your work. Please sit down.”

  She remained standing, saying, “Not too much yet.”

  She was full-breasted, blooming with youth, a trifle heavier, perhaps, than she wanted to be. Her face was fresh and quite serious. She wore a maid’s uniform.

  “Please be seated,” Perkins said again. “Do you know my associate, Mr. Charleston?”

  The girl sank slowly in the chair. “I’ve seen him around.”

  “He’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “I’ve already told all I know.” Her voice seemed strained, perhaps only the strain of being quizzed.

  “Yes,” Charleston said, “but perhaps something escaped your memory. Perhaps you recall something that didn’t seem important to you but may to us.”

  “I can’t imagine—”

  “I understand you found Mr. Smith rather late in the morning?” Charleston asked.

  “I’ve already said so. When I went to make up his room.”

  “Yes?”

  “He was lying there, with a knife sticking out of his back.”

  “I see. Now how did you happen to go in?”

  “I knocked first, like always with our guests, and when there was no answer, I walked in to make up the room.”

  “You opened the door and went in?”

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”

  “Nothing. Did you open the door with a key?”

  “Making up the rooms, I carry a key, of course.”

  “But did you use it?”

  The girl seemed uncertain. “Well, I—here’s what I seem to remember. I started to unlock the door, but it wasn’t locked.”

  Perkins sat quietly, puffing at his pipe.

  “When you found the body, what did you do?”

  “I ran for help. I shouted.”

  “You didn’t touch him to make sure he was dead?”

  “I knew he was dead.”

  “How could you be sure?”

  “Why—why, the knife was sticking in him.”

  “You didn’t enter the room again, not after help came?”

  “I’ve already told Inspector Perkins I didn’t. I just couldn’t do it.”