Mydworth Mysteries--The Wrong Man

by Matthew Costello

  “Connie! Connie! I can’t find my tea!”

  “I’d better go,” said Connie.

  “Don’t worry,” said Kat. “I understand. I can see myself out.”

  As Connie turned and headed down the corridor to deal with Jeremiah, his voice still clamouring, Kat toyed with the idea of maybe sneaking a look around downstairs.

  But then decided, Better to come back again, maybe with Harry. There were more questions to ask.

  Especially now with her every instinct telling her that Connie was hiding something. But what?

  Was it connected to Ben Carter? Well, time – Kat hoped – would tell.

  That is – if there was enough time.

  6. An Open-and-Shut Case

  Kat drove carefully back into town, the streets still quiet, snow banked high in the hedgerows. She parked outside Mydworth Police Station.

  The steps up to the front door had been swept and salted, but were still dotted with treacherous icy patches.

  Inside, as she pushed open the door and entered, she saw the portly figure of Sergeant Timms at the desk, pipe in one hand, mug in the other, and a newspaper open in front of him.

  Hard at work fighting crime!

  A compact fire blazed in the hearth.

  “Aha, um, Lady Mortimer!” said Timms, hurriedly pushing the paper to one side, standing and dragging a ledger across in its place.

  “Sergeant Timms, good morning.”

  “How may I be of assistance, m’lady?” said the police sergeant, slipping round the desk and pulling out a chair for Kat to sit in.

  As he retreated to his side of the desk, Kat saw a couple of faces peer out at her from the back office, then retreat out of sight.

  Timms’ two constables, she guessed. One of them perhaps the chap who’d found the body?

  “Brisk morning,” said Timms. “A cup of tea, perhaps?”

  “Kind of you, sergeant, but I’m not stopping,” said Kat, sitting and unbuttoning her coat in the warm room. “I have a favour to ask.”

  “Oh yes?” said Timms. “Anything at all that the Mydworth Police can do to assist, m’lady.” Though – from Timms’ grumbling tone – it sounded to Kat more like “oh dear”.

  The sergeant’s patience with Kat and Harry’s little investigations – which certainly didn’t show him or the department in a competent light – had grown thin in recent months, she knew.

  “You will have heard that Oliver Brown’s appeal has been dismissed?” she said.

  “Yes, m’lady. Good thing, too,” said Timms. “Waste of everybody’s time, that was.”

  “Wheels of justice,” said Kat, with what she hoped was a sympathetic shrug.

  “Ah yes, though those wheels do come off sometimes, don’t they?”

  “Indeed they do,” said Kat, knowing that she and Timms were now talking about two completely different things.

  Which suddenly seemed to dawn on the sergeant.

  “Er, you’re surely not here to look into the Brown case,” said Timms. “Are you?”

  “Just a review, Sergeant Timms,” said Kat. “For a friend. You know – dotting i’s, crossing t’s. Man’s life in the balance, so to speak.”

  “Really,” said Timms. “And, forgive me for asking, but what precisely does that mean?”

  “Speaking to witnesses. Examining the scene of the crime. Talking to the constable who found the body, perhaps.”

  Kat watched as Timms did his best to put on his full-on disgruntled face.

  “And on whose behalf are you doing this?”

  “The WVS.”

  “Oh. I see. Brown’s wife – poor lady – putting her oar in again, is she?”

  Kat smiled. “Not terribly sure what that means. Oar? But I’d guess you’d agree that Mrs Brown certainly has a right to try and save her husband?”

  “To the bitter end, it would seem,” said Timms, his voice rising. “All rather useless, as I am sure you understand. Doesn’t mean we all have to ‘jump’ when the woman says ‘jump’.”

  “Of course not,” said Kat calmly, refusing to respond in kind. “But we all want justice, do we not?”

  “I dare say you wouldn’t be questioning ‘justice’ if you’d seen the state of that poor lad Carter. Trust me. In this case, justice is the hanging of Oliver Brown, and a hanging there shall be, I am glad to say.”

  Timms is in rare form this morning, thought Kat, smiling to herself. “So – to be clear, sergeant – we can’t discuss this?”

  She saw Timms slide the ledger closer and remove his pen from the inkwell.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Far too busy, as you can see. And, as we say in this country – perhaps yours too – case closed!”

  Kat nodded at that. This was proving challenging indeed.

  “What about the constable who found the body? Bert Loxley, I believe? You think he might be able to give me five minutes?”

  “The new lad? Oh, I don’t think so,” said Timms pointedly. “He’s filing reports. Learning the ropes.”

  “Tomorrow perhaps?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Let me guess. More reports to file?”

  “A policeman’s lot, as the song goes.”

  Kat watched him, said nothing. She wondered if ‘Sir Harry’ were here, making the request, would he have gotten the same treatment? She doubted it.

  She knew her crime in Timms’ eyes.

  Being a woman. Yes – then being American. And probably being an interfering pain in the—

  “Lady Mortimer,” he said, sitting back and folding his arms. “May I be frank?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Nobody wants this case opened up again. It was a nasty thing that happened, and now it’s over. We all want to forget. Oliver Brown murdered Ben Carter. He was tried and found guilty. And on Friday morning he will hang for it. End of story.”

  Kat remained motionless. Timms was not going to be persuaded. Time to move on. The clock was ticking.

  She stood and buttoned her coat.

  “Thank you for your candour, Sergeant Timms,” she said. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  Then she turned and left.

  *

  Outside, the sky was still grey – ominous and threatening – but it hadn’t started snowing again.

  The solicitor’s office, had to be the next port of call, so she turned to head towards the square.

  But she’d only gone a few yards before she heard a voice from behind her.

  “Lady Mortimer.”

  She turned – to see one of the constables, hurrying from the side door of the police station, shrugging his coat on over his shoulders.

  A quick look backwards over that shoulder as if checking to see if anyone might have spotted him.

  “Sorry. I heard what you were saying to the sergeant,” he said, coming close. “And I was thinking... maybe I can help?”

  “Yes?” said Kat.

  “Name’s Loxley.”

  “Ah – you found the body?” said Kat.

  “That’s right.”

  She examined him more closely. Young, clean features. Determined looking.

  “Can you tell me where that was?” she said.

  “I can do more than that,” he said. “I can show you.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble,” said Kat, shooting a glance back at the station.

  “Ha, don’t worry about that,” said Loxley, grinning. “Old Timms won’t leave that chair until he’s had at least two more cups of tea.”

  Kat laughed. Already she liked this young policeman. “All right then, constable – what are we waiting for?” said Kat.

  And together they walked up the snowy road towards Hill Lane.

  To the scene of the crime.

  7. Slip-Knot Alley

  Kat walked with Loxley down Rosemary Lane, then back up Hill Lane towards the centre of the village. The town was eerily silent, the roads and sidewalks still thick with snow, but she saw that the clo
uds were now thinning: the sky above, a hazy blue.

  She’d been in Mydworth a while now, and was beginning to know her way around its patchwork of lanes and roads – but she was surprised when the constable crossed the lane and gestured to a gap between a pair of cottages that was barely a couple of feet wide.

  “It’s called ‘Slip-Knot Alley’,” he said. “Gets a bit wider further up.”

  He turned and disappeared into the tiny alleyway. She passed through the gap too, and followed him, past hedges and tall brick walls until the alley took a final curve to the right, and emptied into an open area, the grass sleeping for winter, covered in white.

  Loxley had stopped and was waiting for her. Behind him, across the field, she could see the rolling shape of the downs, snow-covered, dotted with trees.

  The scene of the crime, Kat thought, looking strangely magical.

  “Well, here we are,” said the policeman, nodding towards a clump of snow-covered grass at the mouth of the alley. “The body was just to the side, there, curled up.”

  “No snow, I guess, back in November – so no helpful footprints?” said Kat, stepping back and taking in the scene.

  “Exactly.”

  “This your first murder?” she said, watching the young man keenly.

  “Won’t be the last, I’m sure,” he said with a shrug.

  But Kat suspected he wasn’t as casual about this as his tone implied.

  “Can you talk me through what happened that night? The call to the pub? Where you met the victim, the murder suspect?”

  Kat saw Loxley pause now, as if maybe having cold feet about getting involved.

  “I’m not sure... It’s all in the records, you can read it.”

  “I know. But sometimes going through it all again can bring back a memory, a feeling, maybe even a fact that just might be important.”

  “And might not?”

  “Sure.” She smiled. “But how about we try? I have done this before, you see.”

  That seemed to put the young policeman at ease.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “That night, back in November. I was on a late shift, so I had the night rounds. It was a cold evening, no rain...”

  Kat listened carefully as he described his first routine tour of the town, then the phone call from the pub as he grabbed a quick cup of tea back at the station.

  “When I got down there, well, it was pretty rowdy. Saturday night, see? And the Station Inn, well, it’s not a pub where you’d take your mother for a glass of sherry, if you know what I mean.”

  “I grew up in a bar in the Bronx, constable,” said Kat. “Even worked in it. I know exactly what you mean.”

  She saw Loxley’s eyebrows raise at that. She guessed, like most people who knew her as “Lady Mortimer”, that bit of her background was always a surprise.

  “When you opened the door of the pub that night, what did you see?” she said.

  “Big crowd, noisy. But people had backed away to make some space – Oliver Brown had Ben Carter by the throat, up hard against the wall, fist up, shouting at him—”

  “Shouting what? Could you hear?”

  “He said – and I quote – ‘Bloody stay away from her or I’ll kill you, I swear to God, I’ll kill you’.”

  “Those exact words?” said Kat.

  Loxley nodded.

  No wonder Brown was arrested within hours, thought Kat. Words like that – tough break for a defence lawyer.

  And pretty clear what the argument was about.

  “Nobody else involved?” she said.

  “Two of them at it. But some bloke was trying to drag Brown away, calm him down, you know.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Davis. Drinking buddy of theirs.”

  “Will Davis?” said Kat, recognising the name again.

  “That’s him. Bloke’s a right idiot.”

  “Oh yes?” said Kat, fishing.

  “He’d be in prison too, if I had my way.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “You see, day after we arrested Brown, Davis turned up, signed a statement that Brown had left the pub with him that night.”

  “A false statement?”

  “From beginning to end. Got tripped up right away, soon as we looked into things. Said he did it for his mate. Didn’t take us more than a day to find out. Sergeant Timms let him off with a warning. Me – I’d have charged him.”

  Interesting, Kat thought. Another good reason to talk to Davis as soon as possible.

  “Okay – back at the pub,” she said, “this fella Davis – trying to stop the fight, yes?”

  “Trying and failing. Brown’s built like an ox.”

  “And Carter?”

  “Lightweight, in comparison.”

  “No contest?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “So – you walked in, and Brown saw you, right?”

  “Heard me first – I made it clear police were on the premises – then he turned and spotted me. Let go of Carter.”

  “And that was it? Fight over?”

  “They dusted themselves down. Davis said it was just a misunderstanding, set up some beers at the bar. Brown cooled down fast. Said sorry. Even shook hands with Carter. That, probably for show. But looked like things were over, so I left.”

  “End of the incident, huh?”

  “What I thought. Made a note of the names, then left them to it. Looked like the disagreement was over.” Loxley took a breath. “Least the fighting part of it!”

  “What time was that?”

  “Nine thirty.”

  “You went back to the police station?”

  “No. Finished my rounds. Did another circuit of the town. And – as we all know – ended up here.”

  “Why this narrow alleyway? You remember why you came up here?”

  “No reason. Take different paths, still getting to know the town, the different ways to get around. Sometimes I go the long way round, check the Arundel Road—”

  “And the time now – was what?”

  “About eleven.”

  “Pubs close at ten thirty, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that means... by the time you got here, most people in town had gone home?”

  “Didn’t see a soul once I left the square.”

  Kat pondered this: so far, nothing unusual in Loxley’s report to seize hold of.

  But then...

  “What do you think Ben Carter was doing here, in this alley?”

  Loxley pointed across the snowy, empty fields. In the distance, Kat was surprised to see the dark outline of Blackmead Farm, smoke curling from a chimney.

  On foot the farm was clearly not so far from the village.

  “He lives up there. Was on his way home. Regular shortcut across the fields from the pub.”

  “Blackmead Farm, yes?” said Kat.

  “That’s right.”

  “And Brown – where does he live?”

  “Other side of town, off the Petersfield Road.”

  Now that was interesting.

  That moment when things just don’t add up. Always exciting.

  “Then – this would be the wrong direction for Brown, going home?”

  “Completely.”

  “Did the two of them leave the pub together?”

  “Spoke to some of the men who were there. More or less, that’s what they said. Witnesses aren’t consistent and you know—”

  “Lot of drink taken, not surprising.”

  “Yes. But one thing they did agree on – Brown had had a skinful. Falling about.”

  Skinful.

  I’ll learn this lingo eventually, Kat thought.

  She looked up and down the alleyway, trying to imagine the events of that November night.

  Then she noticed something. Maybe something not terribly important, really more of a guess.

  But still...

  “So, that night, Carter came walking up here, just as we did now. It’s so narrow here, he
’d have easily known if someone was following him? Especially if they were drunk, staggering?”

  “True. Though he might have invited Brown back to his lodgings for a nightcap.”

  “After being attacked by him? Seems unlikely, yes?”

  “But possible.”

  “Okay then. But bear with me. Say he’s alone, and he comes to this opening. This place... hidden from the village centre. I got to tell you one thing...”

  “Go on, Lady Mortimer.”

  “Look around. This is the perfect spot to wait for someone – knowing they usually take this shortcut, as Carter did. Wait for them, surprise them coming out of the alley. No one likely to see – or even hear.”

  Kat noticed Loxley’s expression change.

  “You’re right, Lady Mortimer,” he said. “Just right for a nasty surprise like that. But then – it still could have been Brown. If he came round fast on the main road.”

  “True,” said Kat. “But you saw him that night. Was Brown in a fit enough state to run ahead and lie in wait? Do you buy that?”

  “Buy it?”

  “Believe that is at all possible?” Kat said.

  She watched him look up and down the alley again as if replaying the crime from different angles.

  “Okay. Maybe not. But it’s all hypothetical, isn’t it?” he said. “Whereas the evidence – the real, hard evidence – points to Brown.”

  “Even though he was falling-over drunk?”

  “Easy enough to put on a show, fool that lot down the pub. I mean, if he was planning something.”

  “That’s a big ‘if’, constable. Tell me, where was the murder weapon found?” said Kat.

  Loxley nodded. “Brown’s back garden, under a bush. Clasp knife.”

  “Any fingerprints?” said Kat.

  “The officer who found it, ahem, mishandled the knife.”

  Sergeant Timms, no doubt, thought Kat.

  “Shame,” she said. “What about the shirt?”

  “I found that in Brown’s vegetable patch, dug in. Drenched in blood it was.”

  “Not the cleverest place to hide it. Or the knife.”

  “True.”

  “And were you one of the arresting officers?”

  “I was there.”

  “And how did Brown react?”

  “He looked surprised. Dopey. Falling over almost. Like maybe he was still drunk.”