Charleston saw the blood beginning to rise in Perkins’s face and spoke before Perkins could. “Goodman doesn’t waste time. You can bet on that.”
“Humph.” Hawley paced again.
Five minutes must have passed, then the door swung open. Tarvin entered, followed by Goodman.
Tarvin asked, “Now what, for God’s sake?”
“Sit down, and I’ll tell you what.” He turned aside. “Cantrell, that’s all.” He flicked his thumb toward the door. Cantrell went out, looking backward once as if to make sure he’d seen and heard right. Hawley’s attention returned to Tarvin. “Here’s what, since you asked for it. Your friend, Constable Doggett, has been murdered, done in by blows on the head. Wouldn’t you like to see him?”
The words seemed to stun Tarvin. When he spoke, it was in a little voice. “Doggett murdered.” He let the words sink in. “But I saw him just last night.”
“You certainly did. And wouldn’t you like to see him today?”
Tarvin ignored the question, if he heard it. “He seemed well enough, and not bothered. Yeah, he seemed happy even, and now he’s dead.”
“That’s not news to you, is it, Tarvin?”
Tarvin sat straighter, as if suddenly jerked from memory. “Yes, it’s news to me. Next you’re going to say I killed him.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No, and I resent the question. It’s a fool thing to ask.”
“Is it? I have some more fool questions.”
“Maybe I’ll answer. Maybe I won’t. Depends on how crazy.”
“All right. All right. What time did you see Doggett?”
“I don’t know what time, not exactly. Eight-thirty or nine o’clock. I stayed longer. We drank some beer I brought.”
“How much longer?”
“Maybe eleven.”
“Then you went home?”
“To where I was staying. I’d called earlier so’s they’d expect me. They know me there.”
“Any witnesses to that? Anyone see you there?”
“I don’t think so. The house was dark.”
“So we have only your word for it?”
“My word’s good. You can believe that or not, but it’s good. Ask anybody.”
“How is it you were still there today, in late afternoon?”
“I don’t work on Saturday. Poor day for sales. The people at the house knew I wanted to sleep in.”
“I see, and that’s just by the way. But now, how is it that you called on Doggett last night?”
“He’s a friend of mine, or was one, and more a friend than ever after he spoke up for me after that first man was killed. Younger than me, but a friend.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Now you wait a minute.” Tarvin put out a warning finger. “I got a few questions myself, like how was Doggett killed?”
Hawley made a mouth out of what he had for a mouth. “I’ll assume for the moment that you really don’t know. His head was beaten in with a spurtle. You know, don’t you, what a spurtle is?”
“God’s sake.” Tarvin pulled in a breath and spoke as he blew out. “God’s sake. There was one lying loose on the counter last night.”
“You knew it for what it was?”
“My mother was a Scot. When she wasn’t cracking crabs with it, she was using it to prop up a window or stir the porridge.”
“So you admit you saw it?”
“No admitting to it. There it was, like I told you. And that’s what killed him?”
“You have it wrong, Tarvin. A person killed him. The spurtle was the instrument.” Hawley seemed to like the distinction.
Tarvin said, “Chicken shit.”
A banging came at the door, and voices sounded outside. Goodman got up, poked his head out and turned to announce, “The press again.”
“Tell them to be patient. Tell them I’ll see them before long.”
Goodman did so and returned to his chair.
Hawley said, “I’ll ask again, Tarvin, why did you call on Doggett?”
“I told you he was my friend. Besides, I had a couple of little treats for him. I knew he loved Bath buns, so I brought him some.”
At Charleston’s inquiring look, Perkins said in a quick aside, “Sweetened bun. Sugar lump inside.”
Hawley fiddled with a pencil. “So that’s what you do, peddle food?”
“Oh, right. Can’t you see me? I got a pack on my back and a stick in my hand. You want to buy a fine tin knife, Mr. Superintendent, sir?”
“Don’t get your back up. Just answer me.”
“I sell specialty food, the very best. Some of it I take orders for, some of it I sell out of the van, and I distribute samples.”
“A trifling question, but what’s this food that’s so special?”
“Uncommon jellies and marmalades, not to mention honey. Biscuits like no others you can find. Spiced and pickled goods, and never a complaint about that. Makes a man drool to mention them. That’s just a few. And there’s Scottish shortbread. You may think you’ve tasted it, but you won’t think so after you’ve sampled ours.”
“I hope that terminates your spiel,” Hawley said, sighing on purpose.
“Why, sir, you asked for it,” Tarvin answered, with a little nod of apparent satisfaction.
Hawley fiddled with the pencil some more. “You do what you do for a living, I suppose?”
“That’s a fool question—what else would I do it for?”
“It’s your only source of income?”
“Just what are you getting at?”
“Never mind. Be good enough to answer.”
“Can’t hurt, I reckon. So it isn’t as if my mum and I would starve if I didn’t work. We got something laid by or, more like it, something was left to us.”
“How much?”
“Now that is none of your bloody business.”
“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Just why do you work if you don’t have to?”
“Because I like to. Because I don’t fancy being a layabout and drawing on savings. And I’d probably drink myself dead if I didn’t keep busy. Now what else?”
“No more questions, I believe. Just some possibilities to consider, one of them being that you killed Doggett.”
“That won’t get you anyplace. I can tell you that.”
“Another consideration is motive. Because you were jailed by Smith and Doggett, you might have it in for both. Small resentments can fester.”
“Any more dreams, Mr. Superintendent?”
“Naturally. Let’s suppose that Doggett knew you had means beyond your job.”
“What if he did?”
“Let’s suppose then that he knew far more about the knifing of Oliver Smith than he ever told. Let’s suppose you killed the man, and that Doggett knew it, and thinking of blackmail, kept that information to himself.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re crazy.”
“To sum up, Tarvin. You were on hand when Mr. Smith was stabbed, not only on hand, but fighting drunk, and he helped subdue you. You couldn’t stomach that, could you? Oh no, you had to get even. You said you didn’t do him in. Drunk and out of it, you said. In jail, indeed! But were you? Were you?”
He waved Tarvin’s protest away. “And now this. On hand again when murder’s been done. A friend of the dead man, you say. Some friend. Some friend. Doggett had something on you, and there was the spurtle, and wham!”
“By God! By God!”
“We’ll let you think about it, twenty-four hours to think about it, refresh your memory. Then, perhaps, you’ll want to acknowledge your sins.”
“Jail me, you mean?”
“What else?”
Tarvin lunged to his feet, leaned across the desk, his hands tightened into fists, and shouted into Hawley’s face, “You can’t do this! Not to me.”
Hawley didn’t draw back by so much as an inch. Charleston gave him credit for that if for nothing else. Hawley said, “You’ll find out I can.”
Tarvin
wheeled around to the others. “Tell him he can’t. I’m an innocent man. He can’t.”
“You can be held for twenty-four hours, Mr. Tarvin,” Perkins told him quietly. “If a formal charge isn’t made by then, you go free.”
Hawley got to his feet. “Sergeant Goodman, lock the man up. Here’s Doggett’s keys.” He tossed them onto the desk. “Give Tarvin a receipt for his things.”
Goodman had risen. He walked forward and put a hand on Tarvin’s arm. Tarvin drew back from Hawley and stood straight. “All right, Sergeant. Not your doing.” He swung his attention back to Hawley and said through his teeth, “Twenty-four years in jail, Mr. Superintendent, and you still wouldn’t realize what a horse’s ass you are.”
Hawley smiled his smile. When two men had gone, he said, “Now there was an interview, Inspector Perkins. Bear down on them, that’s my motto. Mr. Tarvin will sing a different song after he’s had time to reflect.”
“Shit!”
“What’s that?”
“Sure.”
“Iron out the details. I’m off. Couldn’t really spare the time I’ve given you.” He opened the door. “Headquarters thinks I can be two places at once, two places or more.”
A minute after he had gone, Goodman returned.
Perkins said, “Come on, Sergeant.” He got up, full of business. “You know where Tarvin was staying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s more than Hawley does. Come on. Chick, hold down the fort.”
Charleston hadn’t put the newspaper aside when they returned. “The people he’s staying with know Tarvin,” he announced before sitting down. “Known him a long time. He’s stayed with them before and now he’s forced to since the Ram’s Head won’t admit him after that drunk. They verified what he said, even heard him come in last night, and spoke well of him in spite of his occasional sprees.”
He seated himself. “I’m turning Tarvin free. Right now.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Goodman told him. “I doubt you should do that.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“I was just thinking—hasty action could count against you. Hawley would try to make something of it. A few hours more won’t hurt Tarvin.”
“You telling me to be cautious?”
“Yes, sir.”
Perkins seemed to relax and smiled indulgently. “For a little while then, Sergeant. For a little while.”
Chapter Eighteen
Inspector Perkins sat in his part of the Doggett premises, hardly daring to hope that Drusilla Witt would visit him again tonight. It had been a wearing day—Doggett’s murder and with it the doctor, the fingerprint men, the photographers, the questions, and the reports. And don’t forget Superintendent Hawley, who was so sure he had found his man. Or was he sure or just hoping? Square-head Hawley, last of the storm troopers.
He sipped at his glass of whisky. Single malt, the only kind worth drinking. Another glass and maybe his mind would quit churning, quit thinking about the day, quit thinking about Charleston’s departure. Chick’s time was nearly up, or perhaps already up for that matter, and he was fudging his leave just to be helpful.
Rose and Smith and their assignations. He had to follow that up. Best, he thought, to see Rose alone. She’d probably be more forthcoming without others present. No note-taking then. Just himself as a sort of confessor.
Another drink, maybe two, to celebrate Hawley’s departure. He’d be back tomorrow, but now, thank God, he was gone.
He was about to load his pipe when a knock came at the door. He went, unbelieving, and there she was beyond the opened door. A little smile played on her lips. “I had to come,” she said a little breathlessly. “Are you busy? Am I welcome?”
Without thinking, he pulled her inside and kissed her. “I guess I’m welcome,” she said and gave him her mouth again. Then she repeated, “I just had to come, Fred.”
“Like the flowers in May, that’s how you’re welcome,” he said, releasing her. “Here, let me have your wrap. Sit down.”
She seated herself. She had on a light, gray jacket and underneath it a white blouse that buttoned demurely at the throat. Her skirt was dark blue. It didn’t matter what she wore, he thought, she was woman first of all, all woman. Even under artificial light her hair was sunshine.
“Have I passed inspection, Inspector?” she asked lightly.
“With high commendation. Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes, please.”
She glanced around while he was pouring it and asked, “Aren’t you just a little apprehensive, staying right next door to the scene of a murder, so close to where the body must have been?”
“Me? Nervous? Just because a man lay dead next door? No, not me. Say I’ve no imagination. Police can’t afford it. The only dead men who ever hurt anybody were men who passed on diseases like smallpox. Here’s your drink.”
He took a straight chair and faced her.
“Is there anything new, Fred? Something you haven’t made public? And is what I told you helping?”
“It may. But another murder got in the way, so I can’t tell you. Nothing new, though. These things take time. But let’s not waste our time talking shop.”
“Please, Fred, for just a minute. Is it foolish for me to feel a little frightened sometimes?”
“Of what? Drink up and tell me.”
“Two people killed, and no idea who did it. So who’s next? Logical question, isn’t it?”
“I’d say it was more reasonable to believe there’s no next to it.”
“But you can’t really know.”
“I can feel sure, though.”
“Now, Fred, please be patient.” A little frown creased her forehead. “If there’s no next to it, there must be a connection between the two murders. One man did them both for reasons we don’t know.”
“I didn’t quite say that. Please, won’t you come now?”
“You don’t mean to bed? Surely not, sir.”
He didn’t answer, for she had risen, put down her drink and stepped toward the bedroom.
Even as she was undressing, she kept talking about the case. “If there’s a connection, isn’t it likely that Constable Doggett learned something about the murder of Oliver Smith and so had to be silenced?”
“Brainy girl,” he said, liking her all the more. “That’s a possibility, but did you come here to solve the case? That’s not my idea.”
“It’s so mixed up. Anybody could be guilty, I suppose, even Ben Post, and I guess you would include my husband. They’re getting tired of this place and talking about leaving.”
“They can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“No. Not for the present.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, naked save for bra and panties. “I’m not very happy, Fred.”
He stopped in the act of slipping off his shorts and looked at her face. Her eyes were on her folded hands, and he saw a look of sadness there that tore at him.
He took off his shorts and went to her and kissed her and said, “You look so troubled. Please don’t be. Just come to bed, honey.”
Silent, she removed her things and let him cuddle her. And then he was in her again, and all else left his mind. Afterward, with her head on his shoulder, he said, “Now tell me, Dru.”
She was crying softly. Before she answered, she wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet. “I’m thirty-three,” she said and paused, and he wondered whether she was traveling those years again. “I was married at twenty, and now I keep asking myself, is this all there is to it? Tell me, Fred, is this all there is to it?”
“You mean to life?”
“Those dreams. Those old dreams. Just to be alive was joyful, and the future so bright. Gay was a good word in those days, and we were gay.” Silence again. “Gay with dancing, happy with songs. And ahead, just dazzle. That’s enough. I’m maudlin.”
“No. Go on.” Her body was warm against his.
“Don’t you remember the brav
e days? I know you do. When life was overflowing, and the future was all promise. And it all turns out to be nothing, nothing at all.”
Out of impulse he said, “I wouldn’t call being together now nothing. I wouldn’t call this making love nothing.”
She was slow to respond. “No. Not nothing, but not everything either, not what life might be.” She halted and went on, “You may think I’m promiscuous, but I’m not. I’m not faithful to my impotent husband, you know that, but I do discriminate. Maybe that’s all there is to sex morals, discrimination. With you I discriminated. I knew that you wore your stiff manner over sensitivity. I knew you for a good man, Fred.”
“Hasty conclusion.”
“No. I knew.”
“Thanks, anyway.”
“Am I being self-pitying?”
“That’s all right.”
“I hate self-pity, but here goes. My husband came down with the mumps right after we were married. He had a hard time. It made him sterile. It didn’t make him impotent—that’s what the doctors said—but it convinced him he was, and so he was sure enough. His imagination and his fears got the best of him. Still have the best of him, for that matter. He made himself into a eunuch.”
She gave a little laugh, not of amusement. “I was all sympathy until I found out he didn’t want a wife anyhow. He wanted a personal adornment, something to show off to the fellows with possessive pride. Vanity, that’s what it was, though impotence might have had a little something to do with it. He could brag, not in words, of course, ‘See here, men, what I have.’ I was more of a something in those days.”
“That’s hard to believe.” He put a hand on her breast.
“I’m not through.” She was speaking with more vigor. “He never wanted a wife, never wanted a companion, never wanted someone close and confiding, someone to confide in himself. He wanted a doll.”
“He’s a fool.”
“No. He’s just himself. Do you think I know anything about his business, really anything about him, what he does, what he plans, where he stands in the world? All I know is, and this from the way he spends it, is he makes money.” She gave a little snort. “Money! Jesus, Fred, I want a life.”
Murder in the Cotswolds Page 14