“I don’t think you are raving lunatic, but I do think you know more about Hector’s murder than you let on,” Beryl said.
“And why is that?”
“Pipe ash. You tapped some out on a hitching post just now,” Beryl said. “I watched you do it.”
“I am not surprised that business is slow, but I am disappointed to realize that you are reduced to following people for such a small matter as that. Is it a crime to tap out a pipe on a hitching post in America? Because, as far as I know, it isn’t here,” he said.
“It’s not a matter of the tapping being a crime. It’s more about what you might have done before or afterwards. The same sort of pile of ash was left on a headstone within sight of Hector’s body. That was you, wasn’t it?” Beryl asked.
“What if it was? There’s nothing to say that happened during his murder,” he said.
“That doesn’t sound as though you are denying being there,” Beryl said.
“I’m not denying being at the churchyard on the night Hector died. I often cut through the churchyard on my way home from the pub.”
“Did you see anything suspicious? Anyone lurking around?”
“Anyone lurking around besides me?” Mr. Hammond said. “No, I had the place all to myself except for an owl who was perched in the tree above my head.”
“What about the other day at Hector’s house?” Beryl said.
“What about Hector’s house?”
“Someone tried to set fire to a pile of clothing in one of the bedrooms at the cottage,” Beryl said. “You don’t happen to know anything about that, do you?”
“I didn’t start a fire at Hector’s house, if that’s what you’re asking.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the bridge railing.
“What were you doing that night?” Beryl said.
“Are you saying you didn’t notice me?” Mr. Hammond said, a wide smile stretching across his face. “Because I most assuredly noticed you.”
Beryl felt mildly annoyed by his teasing tone.
“I assume you mean that you saw me camped out on Hector’s property,” she said.
“That’s right. I was within sight of you most of the time that I was on his land, but you paid no attention to me whatsoever. If I were a murderer, I could have easily done away with you,” Mr. Hammond said.
Beryl suddenly thought of Alma’s death pool. Perhaps the gamblers were right to lay odds on her as the favourite. She really was losing her edge.
“You are assuming I did not notice you, because I did not confront you,” Beryl lied.
“I am assuming you did not notice me, because you asked me for an alibi. If you had noticed me, you would know where I had been.”
Beryl felt chagrined. She hurried the conversation along to cover her discomfort. “What exactly were you doing on his land if you weren’t setting fire to his home?”
“I was unblocking the stream. Like I told you before, I need the water in order to keep my crops alive. Now that Hector was no longer there, I set about taking back what was mine,” Mr. Hammond said.
“Are you sure you weren’t interested in getting a little more revenge by wiping his possessions off the face of the map?” Beryl said.
“I wouldn’t have risked the destruction of my own property by setting fire to Hector’s cottage. I never would have been inclined to do so, but certainly not during times of severe drought. Although, if I had noticed the property on fire and Hector had still been inside, I can’t say I would’ve put it out.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about that night?” Beryl asked.
“I can tell you that when I was coming back from the field, I noticed somebody hurrying along the lane, heading away from Hector’s place,” he said. “I had half a mind to give chase, but since I didn’t care what happened to Hector’s property, I didn’t bother. Maybe whoever I saw is the one who set the fire.”
Chapter 41
Edwina hurried to the telephone office once more. Bold as brass, she turned the knob on the door and pushed her way inside. She looked round the small office and noticed a door on a far wall. She entered a small cloakroom and spotted half a dozen cubbies next to some coat hooks. Pushing aside her feelings of squeamishness at snooping through someone else’s belongings, she began to rummage through the two occupied cubbies. The first belonged to the telephone office’s only other switchboard operator, Sylvia Thorndike.
The second appeared to belong to Geraldine. Not only did it hold a pair of cream cotton gloves with her initials stitched near the cuff, but an envelope addressed to her sat beneath them. With a quivering hand, Edwina slid the envelope from the cubby and carefully eased a letter out from inside it. She unfolded the creamy sheet of paper and gazed down at the message written upon it.
There was something familiar about the handwriting. After a moment Edwina realized that the odd lower loop on the y was placed to the right of the stem. It was a match for the envelope addressed to Simpkins that Edwina had found at the cottage, tucked into the reading-room book. Surely there could not be two people in the village with such a peculiar trait in their handwriting, could there?
As she read the note and comprehended its meaning, she felt a wave of sadness for young Geraldine. The girl must have left the telephone office with such high hopes for her future. Hopes that had been dashed by misplaced trust. She still was not entirely sure who had penned the note, but she knew that it was likely whoever had done so had murdered Geraldine and had sent a letter to Simpkins.
She briefly considered stopping in at the police station to show the note to Constable Gibbs but thought better of it almost instantly. She must consult with Beryl before taking such measures. With any luck, her friend would still be somewhere in the village, pursuing her own line of enquiry. She folded the note back into its envelope and tucked it away safely in her shopping basket, beneath the loaf of bread. She gave the pair of forgotten gloves a last sad glance before heading out in search of her friend.
* * *
Edwina was steaming towards her like a locomotive. Surely her friend had something important to share. Beryl only hoped it was concerning the investigation. Young Jack Prentice was giving her the eye from the corner where he sold newspapers, and she wished she had a positive report to give him. She knew it was cowardly of her, but she was relieved that Edwina’s arrival provided her with a good excuse for putting off speaking with him, at least for the time being.
Edwina took her by the arm and practically dragged her off towards the village green. As they sped towards a bench at the far side of the duck pond, Edwina filled Beryl in on her conversation with Nurse Crenshaw, on Eva Scott, Geraldine’s plans to elope, and on the letter she had discovered at the telephone office.
Beryl took the opportunity to inform her friend about her own progress with Alma, Milton Boyers, and Clifford Hammond. Between the two of them, it had been an eventful afternoon. When they arrived at the bench, Edwina sat down and placed her shopping basket beside her. She extracted from its depths a slightly grubby envelope and handed it to Beryl, who hastily skimmed its contents.
“I think I know who wrote this,” Beryl said. “Is Simpkins still planning to have his meeting at the Beeches this afternoon?”
“I believe so,” Edwina said. “Is he in any danger?”
“He very well may be. We need to convince Constable Gibbs to accompany us there immediately,” Beryl said. “There’s no time to waste.”
“Are you going to tell me who you think the author of the letter is?” Edwina said.
Beryl told her.
With that, she grabbed Edwina by the arm, and the two of them practically ran across the green in search of the constable.
Chapter 42
It had taken some doing, but Beryl had managed to convince Constable Gibbs to return with them to the Beeches. Beryl thought it was because the constable wanted to save face in her investigations, as she had run out of leads entirely. Besides, she had said, she enjoyed wat
ching Beryl make a fool of herself.
Beryl was inordinately relieved to arrive on the scene and to hear Simpkins’s voice rumbling along the hallway. Beryl waited impatiently while Edwina fetched the envelope she had found at the cottage from its place of safekeeping in her bedroom. Then, with the constable and Edwina in her wake, she rushed down the corridor and pushed open the door of the library. Charles Jarvis, in his capacity as Simpkins’s solicitor, seemed to be presiding over the meeting. He held a sheaf of papers in his hands, and his wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose.
Simpkins, Mr. Armitage, Mr. Fanhurst, and Mrs. Kimberly all sat in chairs facing him. As a group, they turned to stare as Edwina, Beryl, and Constable Gibbs rushed into the room.
“Sorry to interrupt your meeting, but I have an important question to ask of Mrs. Kimberly,” Beryl said.
“What’s this all about, Miss Helliwell?” Mr. Armitage asked. “We are trying to conduct an important matter of business.”
“I’m sure if Miss Helliwell has brought the constable, it will be worth our time to listen to her,” Charles said. He turned towards the interlopers with an expectant look on his face.
“Mrs. Kimberly, are you expecting a child?” Beryl asked.
“I can’t see that that’s any of your business,” Mrs. Kimberly said. Beryl noticed she protectively placed both hands over her abdomen.
“It does seem rather impertinent to sling indelicate questions at Mrs. Kimberly,” Mr. Fanhurst said.
“That’s the thing about a murder enquiry. What’s indelicate or private no longer matters. Isn’t that right, Constable?” Beryl said, stepping aside and allowing Constable Gibbs to show herself more fully to the occupants of the room. Beryl watched their faces and noticed Mrs. Kimberly seemed to shrink backwards into her chair. Mr. Armitage looked amused and Mr. Fanhurst appeared annoyed by the intrusion.
“Unfortunately, privacy is one of the first casualties in any investigation. Mrs. Kimberly, please answer the question. You can consider this an official request,” Constable Gibbs said.
“Not that it’s anyone’s business but my own, but yes, I am expecting a child. As a matter of fact, I intend to contest the will on behalf of my unborn baby. If my husband had lived to hear the news that he was about to become a father, I’m quite certain he would not have left his estate to a stranger,” Mrs. Kimberly said, turning to scowl at Simpkins.
“If Colonel Kimberly had heard you were expecting, I am certain he would not have left you the small legacy that he did,” Mr. Armitage said. “In fact, if he were not already dead, the shock of the news would’ve likely killed him.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Mrs. Kimberly said.
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m full on stating that it beggars belief that Colonel Kimberly could have fathered a child. I happen to know he suffered from mumps as a child, and it left him sadly unable to produce an heir,” Mr. Armitage said.
“How dare you sully my character with that kind of an accusation? A woman’s reputation is her most valued asset,” Mrs. Kimberly said. Her voice had taken on a shrill quality, and her complexion paled.
“I think your most valued asset is your life,” Edwina said. “I think you are in grave danger of losing it to the hangman’s noose.”
“Preposterous,” Mrs. Kimberly said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m here to arrest you for the murder of Geraldine Howarth,” Constable Gibbs said, taking a step towards Mrs. Kimberly. “I hope you will come away quietly for the sake of your child. I would not want you to be injured.”
“I have no idea who you are talking about. Why would I want to harm a stranger?”
“You were seen quarreling violently with Geraldine over a man not long before she died,” Edwina said.
Mrs. Kimberly’s eyes took on a wild look. She began to tremble from head to toe, and every trace of her posh accent faded from her voice. Edwina had been right to guess that Mrs. Kimberly came from far humbler beginnings than her current position would have indicated.
“I didn’t have anything to do with the murders. It was all Rupert’s idea,” she said, her voice breaking. “All I did was tell Rupert about my husband making a new will.”
Beryl looked over at Mr. Fanhurst, who sat in his chair as still as a mouse that suddenly realized a snake had it in its sights.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Beryl asked him.
“I don’t think I’m going to dignify these outrageous accusations with an answer,” he said.
Mrs. Kimberly slid towards the edge of her chair, as if poised for a fight or for flight. She wheeled on her accused accomplice and pointed a finger at him.
“Rupert is the father of my child. My husband said he had discovered that we were having an affair and that was the reason that he changed his will in favor of Mr. Simpkins. When I told Rupert that we had been found out, he said he would take care of the problem,” she said.
“How did he propose to take care of it?” Constable Gibbs asked.
“He sent a letter to Mr. Simpkins, asking him to meet with him on the night of the Derby. He said that it would benefit him financially to do so. He asked that Mr. Simpkins telephone him to confirm the appointment, as it was a matter of urgency and he required a quick reply,” Mrs. Kimberly said.
“So that explains what had been in the envelope,” Edwina said.
“I would’ve remembered a thing like that,” Simpkins said.
“I think it’s a good thing for you that you never received it, considering what happened next,” Beryl said.
“Rupert told me that a man calling himself Simpkins phoned him and arranged to meet him in the churchyard here in Walmsley Parva. When the fellow showed up, Rupert hit him over the back of the head with a shovel, which he then placed next to a drunkard he found passed out near the lych-gate,” Mrs. Kimberly said.
“To think Hector did me a favor, after all,” Simpkins said. Beryl thought his skin looked quite grey underneath his sprinkling of stubble.
“Rupert said that if Mr. Simpkins died before my husband, there was no way he would be able to inherit. Rupert was pleased with himself at his cleverness. The next morning, when he returned from his jaunt down to Walmsley Parva, he proceeded to finish off my husband,” Mrs. Kimberly said.
“It must have come as quite a shock to the pair of you that Simpkins was alive and well and that Mr. Fanhurst had murdered the wrong man,” Constable Gibbs said.
“Right angry, he was,” Mrs. Kimberly said. “As soon as he heard from Mr. Armitage that Mr. Simpkins was going to be in charge of the company from now on, he determined to finish the job.”
“Is that why you came to Walmsley Parva?” Edwina asked.
“Yes. Rupert suggested we hurry down here and see what could be done about Mr. Simpkins.”
Mr. Fanhurst stretched his long legs out in front of him and leaned back, as though he were completely at ease. Beryl found his performance tedious. He had about him the air of a preposterously privileged young man who thought himself untouchable. The notion that he had disposed of Geraldine, Hector, and Colonel Kimberly so callously disgusted her. Realizing that he had intended to do away with Simpkins made her blood boil.
“How very droll. I never would’ve thought you had the wit to invent such an entertaining story,” Mr. Fanhurst said. “Unfortunately, you have no proof. And everyone knows that an expectant mother is inclined towards an imbalanced mind on account of all the rollicking emotions impending motherhood brings.”
“But there is proof that you are involved,” Edwina said. “You really should have disguised your handwriting. Or at least you should not have used the same sort of handwriting on both notes.”
She handed the envelope she had retrieved from Hector’s cottage to Constable Gibbs, who compared it with the letter found in Geraldine’s cubby.
“I hope you will note the strange formation of the lowercase y,” Edwina said, ta
pping on the letter in the constable’s hands.
“If you are going to murder a girl, you should not leave her a note asking her to meet you in the same spot where she is killed,” Constable Gibbs said.
“Is the letter signed?” he asked. “If not, I can’t see how you can connect it to me.”
“I’m willing to testify in open court that you used the term black beauty to refer to your automobile,” Beryl said. “Just like the writer of this note happened to do. Combined with Mrs. Kimberly’s testimony, I would say that you would have a hard time avoiding the hangman.”
“I expect you’re right about that,” Constable Gibbs said. “Telling the truth might go a long way to inspiring leniency from the court.”
Mr. Fanhurst’s shoulders slumped. He seemed to be folding in on himself. Taxed with the proof, Beryl thought it likely he saw no means of escape. She had noticed from their previous cases that oftentimes criminals felt a sense of relief after unburdening themselves, and it appeared that Mr. Fanhurst was cut from the same cloth.
“I couldn’t believe it when old Armitage showed up with the news that a grubby old gardener from a rural village was about to become the head of Colonel Kimberly’s company. How was I to know that the geezer who contacted me wasn’t the real Simpkins?” Mr. Fanhurst said. He looked at Beryl with pleading eyes, as if to ask if she could believe his bad luck.
“Were you the one who tried to set Hector’s cottage on fire?” Beryl asked.
“I ransacked the place, looking for the note, but didn’t find it. Where was it hidden?”
“I think that Hector already destroyed the letter, but the envelope had been used to bookmark a page in a Zane Grey book he had borrowed from the local reading room,” Edwina said. “He had used the back of it to write out a shopping list.”
Mr. Fanhurst laughed. Beryl wondered if he was bordering on hysteria, but he managed to collect himself and to continue.
“Caught out by a penchant for Western novels and a tendency towards thrift. Incredible,” he said.
“What I don’t understand is how Geraldine was involved,” Constable Gibbs said.
Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 25