“Bashed over the head and found in the churchyard, dead as a doornail,” Constable Gibbs said. “What I want to know is, where were you when it happened?” The constable pulled a notepad from her uniform jacket pocket and pried a pencil from behind her ear. Beryl could not help but note the similarity between the constable’s writing implements and the ones that Edwina had taken to using for their investigations. It seemed they were having an influence on the constable, whether she herself realized it or not.
“Why would you want to know where I was?” Simpkins said.
“Because you are the prime suspect in his murder,” Constable Gibbs said. “You don’t deny that you have been on the outs with him of late, do you?”
“Hector and I have never rubbed along all that well. Everyone knows that,” Simpkins said. “But I certainly wouldn’t have wished him to end up coming to harm.” The old man sagged back against the doorjamb of the potting shed, as if he needed its sturdy frame to support him. Beryl wondered if he was headed for a collapse. But in her experience, old geezers tended to weather storms much better than the newer models. After all, they’d seen so many of them before.
“Not getting along is one thing. You were witnessed shouting at him and threatening him with physical violence not long before he was murdered,” Constable Gibbs said.
Beryl felt her heart sink. She knew the scene in the pub had attracted a great deal of attention.
“Are you talking about our row at the Dove and Duck yesterday evening?” Simpkins asked. “We always spoke to each other like that.”
“Not in my family, we don’t. And when someone ends up dead within hours of a public display of animosity, a thing like that has to be taken seriously,” Constable Gibbs said.
“You surely can’t believe that Simpkins had anything to do with his brother-in-law’s death,” Edwina said.
Beryl was glad to see Edwina had recovered some of her voice. Simpkins glanced over at her, and Beryl noticed he straightened away from the doorjamb. While Edwina was someone who was very conscious of social norms and one’s place in society, she was also exceptionally loyal. Simpkins spending the night in her shed without her leave was one thing. Besmirching his reputation and accusing him of murder were entirely another. If Beryl had to choose one person to have her back in a fight, it would be her mild-mannered, diminutive friend.
“I don’t have to explain myself to any of you,” Constable Gibbs said. “Albert Simpkins, I ask you again, please describe your movements after leaving the pub last night.” She held her pencil above the pad of paper as she waited for him to speak.
Simpkins looked over at Edwina as if to ask what he should do.
“Unless you have something to hide, Simpkins, and I’m sure you don’t, it would be best to tell the constable what she wants to know and to send her on her way,” Edwina said.
He nodded and cleared his throat. Beryl watched as his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed beneath the greying stubble on his neck. If he had been camping out in the potting shed, it explained why his appearance had become even scruffier of late. She doubted very much he had brought his shaving kit with him.
“It’s true that I left the pub rather earlier than I had planned last night,” Simpkins said. “I was just too riled up by seeing Hector to want to stay.”
“Witnesses describe an argument between the two of you, and they also reported that you left the pub not long after Hector.”
“I did leave right after Hector did, but I didn’t see him again,” Simpkins said.
“We only have your word for that, though, don’t we?” Constable Gibbs said. “Witnesses also said that you left the pub without bothering to collect your winnings. That doesn’t sound like you, now does it?”
“I wasn’t worried about Chester refusing to give them to me another day,” Simpkins said. “And I just had my pay packet from Miss Edwina, so I wasn’t feeling a pinch in my pocket.”
“But you did follow him out of the pub, didn’t you?” Constable Gibbs said.
“He left the pub, and then I left the pub. That doesn’t mean I followed him. I already told you I didn’t see him again,” Simpkins said.
“Where exactly did you go?” Constable Gibbs said.
“I walked up the high street, then along the lane that heads for the Beeches. I’m sure somebody saw me. It was light outside still, and there were plenty of people about,” Simpkins said.
“Just the fact that they saw you does not mean that you didn’t double back and cosh him over the head,” the constable said. “I think I’m going to take you down to the station for a more formal questioning.”
Simpkins sagged back against the doorframe once more. Edwina stepped closer to him and faced the constable.
“Hector Lomax has been a thorn in the side of the entire village for years. He’s a lazy, no-good lout, and frankly, I’m surprised that no one has done away with him before now,” Edwina said. “Do your witnesses have anything to say about him bothering anyone else in the pub that night?”
“They ought to,” Beryl said. “He argued with a bald man, with Chester White, and even with Frank Prentice.”
“Have you questioned any of them yet?” Edwina asked.
“Simpkins was first on my list,” Constable Gibbs said. “As soon as the murder was reported, I headed here straightaway.”
“And what made you decide that Simpkins was the first one to question?” Edwina said.
“Well, for one, the vicar was the one who reported the body. When he telephoned the station, he said that he saw Simpkins arguing with his brother-in-law in the pub and that the quarrel had turned violent,” the constable said.
“Was there anything else?” Edwina said. “After all, as Beryl said, there were several people heard arguing with Hector not long before you say he died.”
“Simpkins is likely to inherit the property where he lived with Hector upon Hector’s death. If that’s not a decent motive for murder, I don’t know what is,” the constable said.
Edwina looked over at Simpkins. “Simpkins, why have you taken up residence in my potting shed?” she asked.
“It’s like this, miss. Hector and I had a disagreement over some property,” he said.
The constable scribbled furiously in her notebook.
“Just as I suspected. A property dispute,” she said. Beryl noted a touch of glee in the constable’s voice.
“The property had been in the family for several generations. After Hector’s older brother died, Hector seemed determined to let the place fall to wrack and ruin,” Simpkins said. “It just broke my heart to see it that way. The old place had meant so much to my Bess and the rest of the family.” Beryl thought she saw moisture gathering in the old man’s eyes. He was a sentimental old cuss, there was no denying it.
“So that’s why you killed him? So that you could run the property your own way?” Constable Gibbs said. “Seems like an open-and-shut case to me.” To emphasize her point, the constable snapped her notebook shut and jammed her pencil back behind her ear.
“I did nothing of the sort. I told Hector he was lazy and always looking for an easy way out of any manner of work. I told him if he didn’t know how to run the property, he could always ask me for help. After all, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it is to make plants grow,” Simpkins said.
Beryl couldn’t swear to it, but she thought she heard Edwina stifle a guffaw.
“So you claim that you were offering assistance to your brother-in-law when you threatened him with violence at the pub,” Constable Gibbs said.
“No. I offered him assistance over the course of the past several weeks, as I watched the plants on the property languish. At the pub I couldn’t stand the sight of him, because he wouldn’t take me up on my offer or listen to any advice before it was too late. If he kept on the way he was going, this year’s harvest would be lost,” Simpkins said. He shrugged his bony shoulders, as if to ask what anyone could do when confronted with such an overwhelming display o
f stubborn stupidity.
“Is that why you turned up here and took up residence in the potting shed?” Edwina asked.
Simpkins nodded slowly. If she had to guess, Beryl would have said that Edwina was coaching him. While the two of them had a contentious relationship, it was one of long standing, and she had noticed that they were able to read each other’s moods almost like family.
“That’s right, miss. I just couldn’t stand to be Johnny-on-the-spot anymore. Watching those poor plants cry out to me was doing me in. I tossed a few things in a rucksack and came here, seeking shelter, two nights ago,” Simpkins said.
“So you admit that it was a bad enough argument to drive you from your comfortable home,” Constable Gibbs said.
Beryl wondered how Simpkins was going to refute that. Constable Gibbs had been known to arrest suspects on far less evidence than what she had in this case.
“Simpkins, how would you say the conditions in the potting shed compare with those at the cottage you share with Hector?” Edwina said.
“Well, not to cast a bad light on your hospitality, miss, but I can’t say it stacks up all that well. After all, at the cottage I have a large bed with a soft mattress. In there, I bedded down on top of some burlap grain sacks.” Simpkins glanced over his shoulder at the shed behind him.
“Don’t you have rheumatism?” Edwina said. Beryl knew that Edwina did not believe the old man had rheumatism but that he simply used it as an excuse to work at a slower pace. She wondered where her friend was going with this line of questioning.
“Dreadful, ‘tis,” Simpkins said. “The hard floor did me no good whatsoever. You notice how long it took me to come out the door this morning. That’s on account of the stiffness in my joints and how difficult it was to get up off the ground.”
Beryl noticed a deep raspberry-colored flush crawling up the back of Edwina’s neck. She was quite certain that her friend had seen more of Simpkins in the potting shed than she could ever forget. Edwina only flushed when she found a situation deeply uncomfortable. It was one of the ways that Beryl knew how strong Edwina’s hand of cards was when they were playing bridge. It was a certain enough tell that she had not encouraged her friend to learn to play poker. Any cardsharp worth the name would gobble Edwina up within a couple of hands.
“I don’t see how you could possibly think that Simpkins here could be responsible,” Edwina said, turning to Constable Gibbs.
“And what makes you so sure of that?” Constable Gibbs said.
“If Simpkins had bashed Hector over the head and killed him, he would have known that there would be no reason to keep him from heading back to the cottage and sleeping in his own comfortable bed for the night,” Edwina said. “I suggest that you go and interview your other suspects and leave Simpkins alone until you have better evidence to stand on.”
“This doesn’t prove anything,” Constable Gibbs said. “If I don’t find that someone else has a stronger motive or a weaker alibi, I’ll be back for you.” With that, she hurried down the garden path and around the side of the Beeches.
Beryl realized she was holding her breath, waiting for Edwina to give Simpkins a piece of her mind. She exhaled slowly and attempted to turn the conversation in a less unnerving direction.
“What an invigorating way to start the day,” Beryl said. “I don’t suppose there’s any truth to the constable’s accusation, now is there?”
“Of course there isn’t,” Edwina said. “Simpkins, I suggest you pack up your things and then come into the house for some breakfast. Unless I miss my guess, it’s going to be quite a long day. We’ve put the constable off for now, but it won’t be long before she returns with more impertinent questions. I shan’t wish to face them on an empty stomach, and I don’t suppose the two of you will either.”
“You haven’t got a bit of bacon on the go, have you?” Simpkins said.
Beryl knew what he was driving at. There was nothing like a full English breakfast, complete with bacon, eggs, and grilled tomatoes, to sop up a night of excessive drinking. While Simpkins had lighted out of the pub far earlier than she would have expected, Beryl doubted that had slowed his tippling. Many was the occasion Beryl had shared a flask with Simpkins in the potting shed when Edwina was not paying any attention. She expected he had gone straight to the shed and set about making up for lost time.
“Toast and eggs will have to do. We have to get you back to your cottage and get you cleaned up,” Edwina said.
Chapter 4
Edwina looked with remorse at her cold toast, with its extortionately priced butter scraped across its surface now congealed into miniature hillocks. She collected her plate and took it back into the garden and tossed its contents out for the birds. If she was going to go to the bother of making breakfast for Simpkins, she certainly could do with a fresh plate for herself.
Simpkins sat stunned at the kitchen table, his customary hobnailed boots shedding great clods of cut grass on the stone-flag floor beneath his feet. Beryl, knowing how little use she was in the kitchen, sat beside him and now and again patted his hand. Edwina set about making breakfast. Pulling crockery down from the cupboards and setting the kettle to boil gave her mind the freedom to sort through what had just taken place.
Hector Lomax was not someone with whom she would have chosen to associate. His reputation was that of a braggart and a man who, if hired for a job, was inclined to loaf. Rumors around the village had it that he had indeed allowed the family farm to go to wrack and ruin just as soon as his brother was in the ground.
It was widely viewed as a terrible shame. The Lomax farm had been in the family for several generations. They had taken advantage of the thriving small-fruit market that was such a part of the Kentish countryside. Fields had been planted out to berries and currant bushes. They had even tried their hands at a few acres of grapevines. The elder Lomaxes had built their business up from a small market garden to a sizable concern that supplied fruits to the preserves manufacturers.
With Kent’s relative nearness to London and to reliable transport by train, the fertile lands all around the district were valued for their produce. By the time Hector’s older brother, Donald, had taken over, the business was thriving. Even during the war years, somehow they managed to keep it going.
But Hector had not shared his brother, Donald’s passion for the family business or hard work. He had only shown a passion for other people’s wives. And for gaming and strong drink. His mismanagement and lack of attention to the everyday responsibilities of a farm had been much talked about by the residents of Walmsley Parva. Edwina would not have been surprised if the ghost of one of his forefathers had risen up out of its grave and coshed the arrogant laggard over the back of his head with an otherworldly shovel.
Still, it did no good to say such things to Simpkins. By all accounts, Simpkins’s late wife, Bess, had adored her younger brother despite his faults and had insisted on remaining in her childhood home even after her marriage in order to keep an eye on him. Once Bess had died, Simpkins had continued to rattle around the cottage with Bess’s two brothers. Donald’s demise the year before had left no one to serve as a buffer between the two other men.
Simpkins had never claimed to share his wife’s affection for Hector and, indeed, had often mentioned that he found it difficult to tolerate the younger man. Still, from the look on his face, it had clearly come as a shock to hear that Hector had been murdered. Well, of course it had. Edwina felt quite shocked herself.
Edwina cracked six eggs into a cast-iron skillet sizzling with a dollop of bacon fat. She flipped them expertly and then liberally salted and peppered them before sliding them onto three plates. She pulled fresh pieces of toast from beneath the grill and slathered them with butter. This was no time to be concerned about the rationing or the housekeeping budget. Truly, Simpkins looked as though he might slide right off the chair and under the table.
Beryl got to her feet and helped to carry the plates of food to the table. From the way s
he tiptoed about so uncharacteristically, Edwina was quite certain Beryl was heartily ashamed of herself for not informing Edwina of Simpkins’s presence in the potting shed.
Simpkins simply stared at the plate placed in front of him, his egg yolks growing firmer as they chilled. Edwina reached out and tapped on the plate in front of him.
“You must eat something,” she said. “I’ve already wasted a plate of toast on account of Constable Gibbs’s visit. I don’t intend to waste any eggs this morning too.”
He bobbed his chin and lifted his fork, clutching his fist around it with all the grace of a caveman. Edwina averted her eyes.
From the way Beryl kept sneaking glances at him, Edwina could see that Beryl was as concerned about Simpkins as she herself was. Beryl arched an eyebrow, and Edwina knew her friend had thought of something distracting to chat about. Her next words confirmed it. Beryl was trying to draw Simpkins away from his distressing thoughts.
“I’ve been thinking, Ed, about starting a new project,” Beryl said. “Something entirely different and, if I do say so myself, quite timely.”
Edwina hoped that Beryl’s idea of something different was learning how to make her own bed. While her friend had many admirable skills, simple housekeeping duties were not amongst them. As she noticed a flush of excitement on Beryl’s cheeks, Edwina felt her hopes fade and felt a knot grow in her stomach. Every time Beryl got a new notion, it tended to make Edwina quite queasy.
“I’ve decided to write a book,” Beryl announced.
“A book?” Edwina said. This was an entirely unexpected turn of events. Even Simpkins seemed to snap out of his malaise and turned to face her with bits of toast crumbs adhered to his stubbly chin.
“Yes, a book, which I am eminently qualified to write,” Beryl said.
She took a maddeningly long sip of her coffee. Edwina could see that Beryl was trying to hide a grimace as the flavor of the brew registered on her palate. Try as she might, Edwina could not get the hang of brewing a cup of coffee. She knew she was failing at it utterly, but she did not dare risk Beryl taking over any of the culinary duties.
Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 3