Murder in the Cotswolds

by Guthrie, A. B. ;

  Too many subjects, she thought. Too many concerns. Smith and Smith again. One Smith dead, the other alive. Smiths and flow-blue, and flow-blue and Smiths. And here was an old man, a gentle old man, wondering about his age and his mind.

  “How can I answer, Mr. Ebersole? I don’t know enough. It would depend, I suppose. Myself, I’m inclined to act on hunches. Sometimes they’re wrong, though.”

  He said, “They belong in America.” What did he mean, she asked herself? Was she wrong about his wits?

  He began slowly then, his eyes far away, with the years deep in his face. “We were going to America once, my bride and I. We were young, our blooming time, you know, and we saw it as a light, the light of the world, I guess you could say. Or it was the promise waiting there?” His mouth closed. His eyes might be seeing that promise again. “We planned. Oh, we planned. We had faith. We believed. We’d take ship as soon as we had money enough. We’d sail to the bright shores.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said with hardly half her mind on his words.

  He interrupted his story to repeat, “Money enough. Yes,” he said then, “we made ready as far as our purse allowed. We bought some furniture and linens and silverware, all to go on board with us, and we ordered place settings for eight. We would be sociable in our new home.”

  Gazing at the worn face, gentle with its memories, Geeta thought he might be in America now in his mind, or on the verge of sailing with his hard-earned housewares and furnishings and his bride and their hopes.

  His voice went on, “It was out of production by then, but we found a London store that had it, blue and white, eight settings, Touraine pattern, made by Henry Alcock.”

  He paused, took a couple of shallow breaths and continued with haltings as if finding the words hard to say. “We were almost ready. Then, before the china arrived, my bride took sick and died. A short illness, meningitis, they thought it was. Yes, and the flow-blue came too late. It’s in my little house now. I never unpacked the boxes. I couldn’t bring myself to. Couldn’t bring myself to send them back, either. Crazy, I guess.”

  “No, Mr. Ebersole, not crazy.” Geeta brought her handkerchief to her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  He sat, still as a carving, his face bleak with old suffering. He was, she thought, too old for tears. He’d shed them all long ago.

  He spoke softly. “It belongs in America. That’s where it should be. That’s where my bride would want it.”

  She wished he’d stop before he undid her.

  “In America, in the hands of someone who loves it, not to be auctioned off when I die, not to go to nephews I never see. Yes, America. It’s yours, Mrs. Charleston.”

  She cried out, “No, no, Mr. Ebersole. You’re not thinking right. I can’t.”

  “Not even to oblige an old man?”

  She burst out crying.

  It didn’t bear thinking about—old Mr. Ebersole, his dead bride, the flow-blue and the gift of it. One couldn’t rejoice over a gift given from heartache. It and its history lay too heavy on the spirit. She protested. She tried to refuse, but could not bring herself to an outright rejection, he was so insistent and looked so frail and fluttery. Time would ease her feelings, for that was a habit of time. She patted his arm, said goodbye and went out of the store, forgetting the bottle of wine.

  Outside she stood still, oblivious of people, while her mind churned. Flow-blue and the name Smith, and hadn’t Mrs. Witt said something about Oliver Smith and business in connection with an estate? A long jump to a conclusion, but still.… And the Hawthorne woman and the relationship, if any, the reason she had come to see Mr. Ebersole in the first place! Driven from her mind, almost.

  She’d feel better when she saw Chick, but he would be busy with Perkins or Goodman or both. Better not to interrupt them. Better not to be seen as the hysterical woman, even if Chick would never think so. What she knew could wait, couldn’t it?

  So be practical, she told herself as she stood there. Get on with research. Chick wouldn’t mind, but did she dare drive the rented car on English roads? Eight miles to Lower Beechwood, they said. Eight miles and remember to drive on the left.

  That was it, then. The keys to the car would be in the room where Chick had left them.

  She set out, striding purposefully, dodging the morning shoppers. The inn was quiet, the keys where she thought they’d be. Here was the car at the side of the inn. She unlocked it, entered, and swore at herself when her hand trembled with the key to the ignition in it. Backing up was no problem, and here she was, out on the street where a sign pointed the way to Lower Beechwood. Keep to the left, woman!

  She drove slowly, recalling what Chick had said about the right and left hemispheres of the brain. It wasn’t difficult if one took it easy. Let the cars in a hurry whiz by. Hello, goodbye, and good luck, you speed demons.

  It struck her of a sudden that she was hungry. She didn’t wear a watch, but it must be nearly time for lunch, and noon was no time to go calling. On the main street in Lower Beechwood she found a parking place near a pub that called itself the King and Scepter.

  Was it all right for a woman to enter a pub unescorted? Was it the proper thing to do? Proper or not, she was hungry. Let the proprieties go hang.

  It seemed clean and rather cozy inside. She ordered a ham and cheese sandwich and coffee and took them to a vacant table. A clock on the wall registered eleven-thirty, a half-hour before the noon rush. Two customers sat at one table, and a uniformed policeman at another. She nibbled at her meal, waiting until the policeman finished his beer and rose to his feet. Then she called, “Officer.”

  He came to her table, nodding, and greeted her with a “Yes ma’am.”

  “I wonder, can you tell me the way to the home of Mr. Tom Smith?”

  “Young Mr. Smith, you mean? Him with the pounds?”

  “I wouldn’t know. He owns an estate of some kind, I believe.”

  “That’s your man, if you want to see him.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Oh, nothing. Tastes differ is all. To get there, drive ahead to the next street and turn left. About a mile and a half out on the right, there’s his place. A big stone house, it is, with stone pillars at the entrance to the drive. You can call it an estate all right.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  He smile down at her. “No harm done, ma’am.”

  She dawdled over her sandwich and, when her coffee was finished, went for another cup. The first noontime customers drifted in. When the place began filling, she rose and went out to her car and sat there waiting for the slow minutes to pass.

  When it seemed near enough time for a visit, she started the engine and drove on, going slowly so as not to arrive when Smith was lunching.

  The day was fine, warmer now, the sky deeper, no breeze even whispering. It came to her mind that Montana was raw, with the sun and the wind almost constants, and the grass tan for want of rain. Here everything was as green as the Emerald City when Dorothy landed in Oz. She missed Montana.

  She found the stone pillars and turned in. The house rose, tawny, at the end of a curving drive. Beyond the house, to the left, a few sheep were grazing, and farther on she saw what she thought might be deer. In England deer must be raised for the market, for venison was often listed on menus. Roe deer, Chick said they were. A Bentley stood gleaming in front of the house. It would make her rented car look like the last of a scrap yard.

  A young man was playing with a pup on the front lawn. He quit playing and looked at her, the ball in his hand, as Geeta braked to a stop.

  She called out, “Good day, Mr. Smith.”

  He didn’t answer. He just stood there while the dog jumped for the ball. Geeta got out of the car and walked toward him. Then he said, “Don’t bother me. Go away. I’m not buying anything.”

  His face had the look of pout. His lower lip thrust out, like the spout on a pitcher.

  “I’m not selling anything, Mr. Smith. My maiden name was Hawthorne.”

>   He took that news without expression.

  “That must mean something to you.”

  He spoke then. “Yeah. Maybe poor relatives.”

  “I’m not poor, and I’m beginning to hope you’re no relative of mine. I’d hate a blot on the family.”

  She turned back toward the car, so hot with anger it was hard to breathe.

  “Hawthorne,” he called to her. She walked on. “That was my mother’s name.”

  “I know that.”

  “Well, well, what else?”

  It seemed silly, talking over her shoulder, so she turned around. “She married a man by the common name of Smith. I’d call that quite a comedown.” It felt good to needle this uncivil sprout, even at the cost of snobbery.

  He answered, “It was.” She hadn’t stung him after all. “The son of a bitch.”

  She made as if to leave again until he said, “Well, put your questions. I’ll take the time.”

  Yes, she thought, busy as he was, with so much work demanding his young attention, he’d take the time. Gracious of him.

  The pup was whining for the ball.

  “Not such an important question,” she said, damping her dislike, “but isn’t that pup a Highland terrier?”

  “That’s him. Fine line. Cost me two hundred pounds.”

  “Is your ancestry Scottish?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “It seems my Hawthorne ancestors were. I’m trying to trace my family, and I thought your mother, having the same name, might have told you something to help me. She might even have been a distant relative.”

  He was shaking his head. “My mother came from the Midlands, from around Manchester.”

  “She must have told you something about the Hawthornes, her father’s family.”

  “You’re wrong there. She never hardly mentioned them.” He nodded his head as if agreeing with himself. “I guess it was because they died early. I don’t remember them. It was her mother’s side of the family she talked about.”

  “I see. I’m afraid I’ve bothered you for nothing.”

  He threw the ball, and the pup chased after it.

  He ignored her apology. “No wonder she hardly ever talked about the Hawthornes. All she ever got from that side of the family was her maiden name.” He laughed a short laugh. “And then she traded it for Smith.”

  “I shouldn’t have bothered you, it seems.”

  Again he ignored her words. “It was my mother’s sister, my aunt, that is—it was her that helped us through our bad times, and when she died, she left this place to us.” His hand swept out in a proud claim of ownership.

  “It’s a beautiful place.”

  “And it’s all ours. All mine now, and no one else gets one bit of it. No one.”

  “That sounds as if somebody had tried?”

  He smiled what seemed a victorious smile. “It does now, doesn’t it? But it’s all over now. No more trouble.”

  The pup had returned the ball and Smith threw it again and started toward the house. Somewhere a sheep blatted. “Sorry,” he said, not looking back. “Got things to do.”

  She told him, “Thanks,” not caring if he were out of earshot. It was time to go home, home to the inn. Driving, she caught herself muttering again, “Smith and Smith. Oliver Smith and Tom Smith, and did the twain ever meet?” But there were a lot of Smiths in the world, some of them in the Cotswolds. She dared drive a bit faster. She had so many things to tell Chick.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After dinner that night, Perkins walked to Doggett’s house. Goodman had stopped off at the incidents room on the way, saying he had typing to do. The place smelled a little musty, and he aired it out. He smoothed the bed he had made too hastily that morning. He emptied an ashtray and washed it. A man couldn’t feel right in an untidy place.

  But he knew while he attended to these chores that he was trying to shut off thought by doing them. He sat down, got out his pipe, and put it back. Time was a cloud over him. No, it was rushing at him, head on, and it had an ugly face. Hawley coming tomorrow, sniping at him for lack of progress, hinting at putting another man on the case, and maybe contriving to do so, barring a break. He’d managed that trick once before. A vindictive man, Hawley, still sore because Perkins once had expressed quiet doubts about his abilities. Let him be sore then, the bastard. Charleston had Hawley’s number all right, but how much longer would he be around? A week would stretch his time, he had said. Perkins would miss him. He was like a good right arm. More than that.

  He jumped to his feet and paced the room. It was really a small flat, this room, a combination of sitting room and kitchen, a bedroom and bath. It was neat and adequate and, as Doggett had said, sound-proofed. No ringing telephone in Doggett’s flat sounded here.

  He stepped into the alcove that was the kitchen, opened a bottle of good Scotch, poured a sizable drink, and took it down in two gulps. He sat in the one big chair, picked a book from an end table, and pitched it back without reading the title. He rose and paced again.

  It wasn’t enough that time should press him and Hawley be snotty. He had women on the brain. One woman now, one small woman with that look of fresh innocence that was almost a dare. Women. They were the slave-owners, in them the weapon of giving or withholding. And he was a damned slave, ready to forgive all, to slaver in forgiveness, if the withholding woman would give him release. Women and murder. Murder and women. A man lived one hell of a life. And, like a child, felt damned sorry for himself, the numbskull.

  A knock on the door interrupted him. He went to it and flung it open and saw Mrs. Witt and heard her say, “I promised to tell you something.”

  His voice came out harsh. “It better be good.”

  “Don’t you want to see me?”

  “Yes, I want to see you. Come in.” He took her jacket and hung it on a rack. It was wet. “Raining?”

  “Raining.”

  “Do you want to sit down?” He motioned toward the big chair and carried a straight-backed one from the alcove.

  Before seating himself, he asked, “Do you want a drink?”

  “That would be nice. A small one.”

  He poured two drinks, added a little water, and brought them back. “Cheers,” she said, lifting hers.

  “Cheers.”

  “You don’t seem very sociable.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  No, it couldn’t wait. Not what he was thinking about. He rose from his chair, took a couple of steps, bent over and kissed her, spilling a few drops of his drink.

  As he drew back to see her reaction, she smiled and said, “Thank you.”

  He said, with a gesture of his head, “Could we? The bedroom?”

  She laughed lightly. “You’re a sudden man, Inspector.” But she got up, moved into the bedroom, sat on the bed and began taking off her clothes—shoes first, stockings from little feet, her blouse, her skirt.… He looked away. It was too much. He’d jump her if he saw more.

  She stood up, and he did steal a glance at her, seeing a rather small woman, high-breasted and slender. He heard her say, “Aren’t you coming?” She pulled down the spread and settled herself.

  “Sure, I’m coming,” he answered. He began yanking at his clothes. “I was just enjoying the view.” He got up and moved toward her, his hand shielding his erection.

  “Why not let it show?” she asked. “It’s a statement, isn’t it?”

  He entered her with a lunge that made her gasp, and then it seemed to him she knew more than any woman before her, knew how to please him in ways beyond his experience.

  He came almost immediately, and he could imagine he was pumping all of himself, muscles, sinews, and organs into this clever and welcoming conduit. Return to the womb. Why not? Why not?

  Lying at her side afterward, he thought of words like delight, like rapture, like bliss. The wife of years ago had been acquiescent, no more than that. The occasional women had been compliant. He
wouldn’t think about them. He’d think about what he had, what he would have again.

  He said, “You’re lovely,” and they lay quiet.

  The rain came then, a steady patter-patter on the roof. What could be better than this—the heard rain, the room cozy and the woman warm at his side?

  He rolled from the bed and went to the bathroom and sponged and dried himself. When he returned, she patted his groin lightly.

  “I’m wondering about your husband,” he said then.

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  “But …”

  “He’s either asleep or studying a chess problem.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “You’ll understand when I tell you he’s impotent. Because he is, he lets me have my occasional freedom. He’s a civilized man.”

  “Poor devil. Missing out on this.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m not pushing you, but you’ve almost made me forget the important things you were going to tell me.”

  “I’ve kept them in mind.”

  “Good.”

  “Oliver Smith was a womanizer.”

  “We already know that.”

  “You don’t know the extent. He couldn’t get enough. Never. Not ever.”

  “You really believe so?”

  “I know so. Throughout our trip he’s embarrassed us, making up or trying to make up to every female.”

  “Including you?”

  “Of course. But he’s not my type at all. I told him so. Told him to get lost and forget it. He wore a beard then, so big and bushy monkeys could have swung in it.”

  “Bushy passion,” Perkins said, laughing lightly.

  “Ben Post wore one, too.”

  “I suspected so. That’s hardly the important thing you’re going to tell me, is it?”

  “Of course not. I haven’t told you that.” She waited for him to ask what it was and then went on, “Oliver was sleeping with the maid, Rose Whaley.”

  “For a fact?”

  “I would swear to it. Twice I saw her in the hall and both times she entered his room.”

  “Natural. To tidy up.”

  “How long would one room take? Ten or twelve minutes at most. I timed her. Once she stayed twenty minutes, another nearly a half-hour.”