Murder in the Cotswolds

by Guthrie, A. B. ;

  Charleston asked quietly, “How well did you know Mr. Smith?”

  “All these questions,” Rose answered, her voice rising. “Questions, more questions, and for what?” Her patience had turned into defiance. “I’ve told what I know once. It’s enough to drive a person crazy. Question. How well did I know Mr. Smith? I knew him as a guest of the inn, like all of us on the staff. Oh, I knew him well enough to say, ‘Good morning, Mr. Smith.’ Make something out of that.”

  “Not unless there’s something in it, Miss Whaley. What was your impression of him?”

  “None. He was just a guest.”

  “Friendly with the others in his group?”

  “Ask them, why don’t you?”

  “We will, of course. You have a room here at the hotel, do you not?”

  “A little bed-sitting room. It’s my home.”

  “Did you hear anything unusual, any noises, any commotion, the night of the murder?”

  “No. My room’s pretty far away.”

  With his hand Charleston made a little motion of dismissal. “I believe that’s all, Rose, unless Inspector Perkins has more questions?”

  Perkins put his pipe aside and shook his head. “You can go back to work, Rose. We’re obliged for your help.”

  The girl left without speaking.

  Perkins looked at his watch. “Lunch,” he said. “Doggett, hold down the fort until we get back. Goodman, lead us to that pub again.”

  They walked the two blocks to the pub, through a lunchtime crowd that seemed intent on destination but not worried much about time of arrival. Charleston found he liked this kind of commotion, where people smiled in passing and gave you polite room to pass. A polite people, here in the villages at least, where gregariousness seemed the order of things. Everybody out for lunch. Everybody at once.

  The pub sign bore the name Stag and Hind, and underneath was the the notation “Free House.” It had a small bar or counter. A tall, bald man stood behind it, unflustered as order after order came to his ears while his hands worked.

  Perkins and Goodman ordered ham sandwiches and beer, and Charleston asked for Welsh rarebit and beer.

  Sooner than expected, the bartender had their orders ready. With them in hand they turned to find some place to sit. Five tables in the place, Charleston counted, three fully occupied, two only partly so. The men at one of the tables moved over to make room.

  Munching on his rarebit, sipping at his beer, Charleston compared customs. No waiters in a pub, not like in America. You waited on yourself here. And people expected to share tables and did so with smiles. Better spirit than offishness. The rarebit was excellent.

  He asked Goodman, seated next to him, “What’s a free house?”

  “One not owned by some corporation that limits the brands on sale to those it makes or handles. Independent is what it means.”

  The customers at their table stood up and went out, and before any others arrived, Perkins asked Charleston, “What about Rose? Anything there, you think?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You rather laid into her, didn’t you, Chick?”

  “I guess I did. I wanted to shake her up and succeeded there at least. Maybe to some purpose.”

  “Who’s up this afternoon, Sergeant?”

  Two other customers took seats at their table, both full of talk, not listening to Goodman’s answer.

  “The night man. I woke him up. He’s one. Then that bus boy, Larry Bates, and the bellman. I have his name in my notes. Mrs. Vaughn, if you want her. There’s a gardener, too, that I managed to locate. The other waitress, name of Betty Saunders. I doubt you’re interested in the new chef, but the old cook’s around helping in the kitchen. The bartender, too, a young woman. There’s a dishwasher and kind of daily woman. Not in, but she’ll be around later. That sounds like a full afternoon, but someone around here has to know something.” He shook his head. “That’s for us to find out, and by God we will.”

  They gulped the last of their beers and walked back to the cottage.

  The telephone was ringing as they entered. Doggett took the call, said, “For you,” to Perkins, and added, “Got to go. Got a complaint.” He hurried out.

  “Yes,” Perkins was saying. “All right.” His hand reached over for pencil and note pad. “Give it to me.” He scribbled for a while, then sat down, loaded his pipe, and fired up. “That was headquarters,” he said between puffs. “Autopsy report. We were right about the time. Midnight, or within about an hour either way. Smith was in excellent shape, except for the knife that killed him. No other signs of violence. No evidence of poison. Nothing on fingerprints. He had had sex or at least an ejaculation some time before he was stabbed.”

  “Reward and punishment,” Goodman said wryly.

  “If you’re going to get religious on me, make it sin and atonement,” Perkins said. “And by the way, the super is coming tomorrow.”

  “Blessed day,” the sergeant intoned.

  “Well, time to get to work. Sit down, Chick. Who’s up, Sergeant Goodman?”

  “Whoever you want.”

  “Make it the night man then.”

  While Goodman was gone, Charleston said, “Nothing on the knife?”

  “It went to Gloucester for examination, along with the body and what other little evidence there was. Horn-handled. No prints on it.”

  “You’ve traced it?”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s a mate to one in the kitchen. Identical. Suggests an inside job, eh?”

  Charleston didn’t have to answer, for the door opened then to admit Goodman and an older man, a lot older, Charleston saw on second glance. He wore a pair of worn trousers and a half-buttoned shirt, both wrinkled as if he had slept in them, as Charleston supposed he might have.

  “Have a chair, sir,” Perkins said, “and give me your name if you will.” He put his pipe on the desk.

  The man sat down, his eyes rolling suspiciously from Perkins to Charleston and back. His toothless mouth opened to say, “Harold Opey, just Ope to most folk.”

  “We know you’re the night man. You answer the bell if anyone comes in late. Right?”

  “Mostly I hear it first ring.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “Just once lately. That was Mr. Smith, him that got himself killed. Smelled of strong drink, he did, and pushed past me like I hadn’t put myself out to let him in. Uncivil, I’d say.”

  “Was that your only encounter with him?”

  “Once was enough.”

  “Do you know, were the other doors locked, the side and back doors?”

  “Mrs. Vaughn or somebody sees to that. Not my business.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual the night of the murder? Unusual sounds? Noises? Footsteps? Voices? Anything?”

  “There wasn’t none, and I sleep light.”

  Perkins glanced at Charleston, who gave him a shake of the head. “That’s all, Mr. Opey,” he said. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

  “All, eh?” Opey answered as if he couldn’t believe it. At Perkins’s nod he let himself out the door.

  “Mrs. Vaughn next?” Charleston asked. “I’d feel better with a doctor present. She’s frail as a potato chip.”

  Perkins smiled. “I guess you mean what we call a crisp.”

  Goodman raised a questioning eye. “Mrs. Vaughn?”

  “No. Not now, anyhow,” Perkins answered. “You know, Sergeant, we’ve already questioned her at length, and all we got out of it was a collapse or damn near it. Let’s tackle the bus boy. Larry Bates, isn’t it?”

  Goodman went out the door, to return in no more than five minutes. While he was gone, Charleston said, “That bus boy’s big enough to eat hay.”

  “Strong as a horse, too, by the looks of him. Good at all sports, I hear. Keeps in condition.” Perkins fired up his pipe and took a couple of quick puffs before setting it down again.

  Larry Bates looked around on entering, then took his seat. The sleeves of his tan shirt were roll
ed up and showed the fine hair of early manhood. Later it would thicken and coarsen, and he could call himself Tarzan, a name that his build already suggested. His manner seemed defensive, a not unusual attitude for strangers to police questioning. Asked if he had heard anything out of the ordinary on the night of the murder, he answered, “How could I? When I get through work, I go home. That’s about ten-thirty, sometimes a little later.”

  “Home?” Perkins continues.

  “Home to my mum’s. That’s where.”

  “What about Mr. Smith? Had you seen him enough to form an opinion?”

  The boy’s jaw tightened. His voice strengthened. “I seen him enough, all I wanted to and more.”

  Perkins asked, “Why was that?”

  “Treated us help like dogs, he did.” He swallowed his anger, thought a second, and added, “His own folks didn’t have any time for him.”

  “They didn’t?”

  “Only Mr. Witt, he put up with him, and Mrs. Post, she gave him some notice. But not Mr. Post, no, sir. It was like he got mad just seeing him.”

  “Now, Larry, was the place locked up the night of the murder, side door and back? Did you attend to that?”

  “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Mrs. Vaughn. Half the time she does it.”

  “But what about that night?”

  “Best I remember, we kind of did it together. All you have to do is put the lock on self-lock, so it catches tight when the door is closed from outside.”

  “And you did it together?”

  “I think so. I was quitting work, and she just kind of went along, being friendly.”

  Bates was dismissed then, and more staff members called.

  Witnesses came, spoke, and departed. The bellman was a scrawny kid whose face fell into retreat below his nose, leaving a pout of a mouth and a button for a chin. All he knew about Mr. Smith was he didn’t throw his money around. The gardener, Joseph Jones, an old man, knew nothing at all. Betty Saunders, the second waitress, was no help, except Mr. Smith was bloody gruff and close with his money. Nothing from the old cook, who was assisting the new chef, and nothing from the dishwasher, a stout village woman, who tried hard to dig up information but couldn’t find any.

  Perkins had hoped for more from the young bar woman, Janie Rogers. She came in demurely, a fair-haired girl of perhaps twenty-two, dressed in a simple flowered dress. She took the seat indicated and said, “Yes, sir.”

  After she had given her name, Perkins asked, “You were on duty last Monday night, the night the fight took place in the bar?”

  “Yes, sir, I was. I work just part time and that was one of the nights.”

  “Tell us about the fight.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess it was my fault, but until he got quarrelsome, the man didn’t show any signs of having too much to drink. It came on all of a sudden.”

  “What was it about?”

  “Oh, Lordy, who knows? You know how drunks are.”

  “Not altogether, miss. How did the man Tarvin come to brace Mr. Smith?”

  “I don’t know, unless it was that Mr. Smith tried to calm him down when he began swearing. Right afterwards Constable Doggett came in.”

  “And Tarvin objected to being thrown out?”

  “He sure did, but he wasn’t making any sense.”

  “Did he threaten Mr. Smith?”

  “Not that I heard. He was just swearing and shouting and then he went limp.”

  Perkins dismissed her.

  After she left, Perkins shrugged, blew out a long plume of smoke, and said, “So much for the underbrush. Damn little there.”

  Goodman said, “There’s still Mrs. Vaughn.”

  “We’ll get to her tomorrow, her and the Americans again. Oh, hell, there’s the inquest then. Always some bloody thing getting in the way of work.”

  “Yes, sir, like dinner. You must be hungry.”

  “You mean you are. You’re always hungry, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir. And thirsty now in the bargain.”

  “All right. Until tomorrow. Bright and early, then, to catch the goddamn worm. Doggett’s nosing around. At least I asked him to. He may come up with something.”

  “That’s sure looking on the bright side.”

  Over dinner that night, Geeta asked, “Do you have to spend so much time on this case?”

  “I do, Geeta, and you know why. I can’t sit by and let a good man go down. Besides that, not so important, though, I’d like to show up that joker of a superintendent.”

  “They’re certainly making use of you while you’re here.”

  “Time’s short. Mine is.”

  “Did you notice the Posts and Witts are here tonight?”

  “Along with what seems to be a new batch of tourists.”

  “And another thing, Chick. Did you notice that the waitress, Rose you call her, didn’t speak to us when she came for our order?”

  “That’s my doing. She got upset at some of my questions.”

  She shook her head, stopped, and shook it again. “What a mess!”

  “Forget it, for now anyhow. You haven’t told me about your day.”

  “What about my day is that I’ve missed the bus.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The older Hawthornes, you know, my great-grandfather, moved to the Cotswolds from Scotland and went back there after the boys had sailed for America. Moved back, of all places, to Fort William or near there.” She added with disgust, “And we were just there.”

  “Spilled milk,” Charleston told her.

  “Oh, all right, but I’m not quite crying over it. I’ve got a lead on a woman named Hawthorne who lived here for a while. She might have been a relative. A nice grocer told me about her, then got too busy to talk. I’ll know more shortly. Tell you about it later on. Come along. Forget your darned case and come. We can have coffee in the lobby.”

  Chapter Nine

  Charleston was dressing the next morning when the telephone rang. “Morning, Chick,” the voice said. “Perkins here.”

  “Hi, Fred.”

  “I called to tell you Superintendent Hawley is here.” Charleston gathered from his tone that Hawley was in the room with him. “With him are the pathologist, the coroner, and a detective constable he thinks we may need.”

  “Yes.”

  “Superintendent Hawley wants to go over our reports this morning. The inquest is this afternoon. There are witnesses to be notified and jurors to be summoned.”

  “You’re telling me to stay put?”

  “Not quite that. I just don’t want you to waste your time. I thought I’d save you that.”

  “Thanks, Fred. No reason for me not to attend the inquest?”

  “None at all. See you there.”

  “Red-tape delay, Geeta,” Charleston said after he had hung up. “Nothing for me until the inquest, if then. That’s what Perkins said, but I have other ideas.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve heard mention of a Mr. Vaughn. I aim to call on him.”

  “Just so it’s not dangerous.”

  “Not even close.”

  “Let’s hurry. I want coffee.”

  She ate a light breakfast, just juice, toast, and coffee, and at the end put a napkin to her lips and stood up. “I’m going to follow the one lead I have, you know, with the grocer, and then maybe go antiquing.”

  “You go ahead then.” He looked at his watch. “Too early to go visiting.”

  He ordered more coffee when she had gone and sipped at it, willing the time to pass, wishing the minutes away until a decent hour for a visit arrived.

  The coffee finished, he walked into the lobby. A woman he hadn’t seen before was at the desk. Out of habit he asked if there was any mail for him and then said, “Oh, sorry. My name’s Charleston.”

  “Yes,” she answered, smiling. “I know that.” She looked at the mail slots and added, “Nothing today.”

  “Fair
’s fair,” he said, returning her smile. “If you know my name, it’s due me to hear yours.”

  “I’m Jane Witherspoon. I lease a cottage in back of the inn and help out here when I can. I’ve known Mrs. Vaughn for years.”

  She wore a white blouse, rather frilly and altogether feminine. In contrast, her dark hair, beginning to show streaks of gray, was drawn severely back from her face. But the face was friendly and quick to smile.

  “It seems we’ve neglected you,” he said.

  “How?”

  “A sad case of discrimination.” He grinned into the friendly eyes. “All the rest of the staff have been questioned.”

  “Oh, I’m a murder suspect?”

  “I wouldn’t use that word. Were you here the night of the murder?”

  “In my cottage. I’m not steady help, Mr. Charleston. Just during the season and at other times if Mrs. Vaughn wants me. I fill in at the desk and help Rose sometimes with the rooms. You know Rose? Oh, but never mind, Mr. Charleston. I know you have things to do.”

  He consulted his watch. “Not quite yet. Yes, I know Rose, the waitress.”

  “Also the maid.” The woman glanced around the vacant lobby, then leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter, “I tell you that girl has her hands full, even with the help of the bus boy. You’ve seen him? Larry Bates?”

  “Yes.”

  “They get along so well, those two. One day we’ll hear wedding bells, I imagine.” She smiled at the thought. Then the smile faded as she added, “That girl takes too much on herself. Every afternoon she goes to see Mr. Vaughn.”

  “Every day?”

  “Yes indeed, or almost. He’s a cripple and doesn’t often leave the house.”

  “Rose sounds overdedicated to duty.”

  “Overdedicated to kin is more like it. But goodness, you don’t want to waste time talking to me.”

  He smiled. “Kin, you said?”

  “Rose is Mrs. Vaughn’s niece, the daughter of her older sister, who’s been dead for years. Died when Rose was six years old. So Mrs. Vaughn took her to raise. The father, a Cockney, was no good and glad to get rid of the child. Pity.”

  “Never seen since?”

  “Never.”

  The outer door opened, and Mrs. Vaughn came in. She put her hat on a rack and went behind the counter, smiling.