A Country Way of Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 4)

by R. A. Bentley

  'The drinks were a clever touch,' said Rattigan at luncheon. 'All in this together and so on.'

  Miles grinned. 'Worth a couple of bob, I thought. I wouldn't do it in Limehouse.'

  'Were there many in?' asked Lavinia. 'More soup, Teddy?'

  'Ten or twelve,' said Miles, handing the bowl across. 'He's unlikely to have been one of them, unless he's got iron self-control, but one way or another he'll get the message that we're after him. There's nowhere much to hide, and if he cuts and runs we've got him.'

  'There was a lot of worry and concern there, I thought,' said Rattigan. 'You could see it on their faces. It wasn't like in Town where maybe a couple of people know something and the rest are just bored or hostile. They'll go home and tell the missus and it'll spread like wildfire.'

  'I ought to take exception to that remark,' said Connie, 'but I expect you're right.'

  'Oh, I'm not counting you, Miss Harrison,' said Rattigan. 'You're above all that, I'm sure.'

  'Connie,' she reminded him.

  'Sorry, Connie.'

  'Perhaps we should make it a "Miss Harrison" box as well as a "Sir" box,' speculated Daisy. 'What do you think?'

  Rattigan feigned truculence. 'A pub snack might be cheaper,' he grumbled. 'Also, I'm running out of pennies.'

  'You're a couple of bullies,' said Lavinia, 'Leave the poor man alone. Hello, dear. You were a long time.'

  'Breech,' said Roger coming in from the hall. 'A son, eight pounds, four ounces. Both doing well, once I got the creature out. Hello Teddy, nice to see you again.' He flopped wearily down. 'Five hours, plus the walk. I'm getting too old for this game.'

  'How far would that be, er, Roger?' asked Rattigan.

  'Four miles or so. Mostly uphill, coming back. They do it every time. Pop when there's snow, I mean.'

  'Do you want me to call on her?' asked Lavinia. 'It's Eunice Collins, down in Nether,' she explained. 'She's a bit . . .'

  'Thick,' said Roger robustly, 'and so is that husband of hers. I'd appreciate that, but be warned that it's raining. It's got to the treacherous stage.'

  'Might we take the car?' asked Connie. 'If you trust me with it.'

  'By all means, my dear. Thank you. She's a tough little animal but it'd do not harm to check on her later. It'll be safe to drive in an hour or two, I should think, or you could leave it until the morning. Perhaps you'd better do that. You don't happen to have a starched white uniform do you? Not too long at the hem.'

  Connie laughed. 'Who is that to impress?'

  'Collins. Give him a nice smile and he might even pay for the last one, though I'll probably have to settle for a fowl or two.'

  Miss Beatrice Pruitt's tiny house was next to the village smithy and across the road from Glebe Cottage. The last time Miles saw her she had been standing quietly near his father as he worked on her stricken friend. When no hope remained she had bent into the trailer to kiss her and quietly gone home.

  'You'd best come in,' she said. 'I thought you'd turn up eventually.'

  They sat at the table in the minuscule living room. It couldn't have measured more than ten feet square, with the front door opening straight off the street. Packed bookshelves filled the chimney alcoves and there were books in a pile by Miss Pruitt's armchair. Group photographs of generations of schoolchildren vied for the limited wall space with recent-looking enlargements, probably of holiday snapshots, of the Acropolis, the Parthenon and other Greek antiquities.

  'You're investigating the intruder,' she told them. 'Interested in that note on the carol service score no doubt?' Her deep but melodious voice carried an Oxbridge accent. Cecily Ashton had been a Hampshire Hog and proud of it.'

  Miles glanced at Rattigan. 'Yes, we are,' he admitted. 'Did Miss Ashton say much about it?'

  Miss Pruitt nodded. 'She was disturbed by it,' she said. 'Linsey was a lazy young devil but a likeable one, and very bright. She felt he was sincere in his affection for Ellen and she accepted him for her sake. She didn't believe he'd run away.'

  'So you're saying she believed he'd been murdered?'

  'Yes she did. She told the police so.'

  'What did Ellen think?'

  'Ellen never gave up hope. She asked for him when she was dying.'

  'May I ask what you thought about it? At the time, I mean.'

  Miss Pruitt considered her answer, pursing her thin lips and giving tiny, thoughtful nods as she did so. 'One could imagine him running away,' she said at last. 'He was rather a little fellow, good-looking but slight. He'd have realised he was no match for the farmers' boys. If he'd been threatened by someone it might have frightened him off. I doubt Ellen ever saw the message on the score so she mightn't have been aware of that.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'Because if she had, she'd hardly have left it lying about. Very likely she'd mislaid it and made do without. She'd sung at several carol services and they don't vary much.'

  'She never mentioned losing it?'

  'Not to me.'

  'How do you suppose it came to be in the organ bench?'

  'Oh, she was a bit scatty, as they often are at that age. She might easily have left it in church.'

  'And then it found it's way into the organ bench.'

  'Yes, the cleaner probably put it there.'

  'Who was the cleaner. Any idea?'

  'No, I'm afraid not. We do it on a rota and many of those ladies are no longer with us. Probably none of them.'

  'Being mostly middle-aged or elderly, at the time?'

  'Yes, they were.'

  'Do you suppose it was in the church that this person wrote on Ellen's score, if she was in the habit of leaving it about?'

  'That seems likely,' agreed Miss Pruitt. 'A fellow chorister, perhaps, or a bellringer. They would hardly have wandered in off the street.'

  Miles observed her thoughtfully for a moment. 'They were about to be married, I believe, she and Baverstock?'

  'Yes, it was all quite tragic. She was a most charming girl; bright, like all her family, and very smart and ladylike, but mad for boys. She always seemed to have a different one. We warned her, but she wouldn't listen, and of course the inevitable happened. Then she took up with Linsey and no-one else would do. He was what she'd been looking for, I suppose.'

  'Forgive me, Miss Pruitt, I'm lost. Are you saying Ian isn't his child?'

  'Baverstock's? Oh no. Ian features his mother a little, but he's nothing like Baverstock.'

  'Whom do you think it was, then?'

  'I shouldn't wish to speculate.'

  'Fair enough. And did Baverstock know this? Did he even know Ellen was pregnant, when he disappeared?'

  Miss Pruitt considered. 'Possibly not, to both questions.'

  'But she claimed Ian was Baverstock's?'

  'Yes she did,' said Miss Pruitt, her tone suggesting she didn't wish to continue that line of enquiry.

  Miles indicated his understanding. 'I'm making rather a large assumption of course, about the motive of the intruder. It could have been simple burglary, though no money seems to have been taken. Can you think of anything else he might have been looking for, perhaps of a documentary nature?'

  Miss Pruitt shook her head. 'There was nothing like that. Have you been talking to Mr Shepherd by any chance?'

  'Yes I have.'

  'Well I should take what he tells you with a pinch of salt. He's a good man, but he believes what it suits him to believe. May I make an observation, Mr Felix?'

  'You're going to tell me that no good will come of raking up the past.'

  'I doubt it will. No good, and perhaps harm.'

  'But if you're right, and Baverstock ran away,' said Miles, rising, 'there'll be nothing to rake up, will there?'

  'Villages are full of secrets,' said Miss Pruitt. 'Some are best left alone. Have you any idea yet who the intruder might have been?'

  'Not yet. And if we restrict ourselves to the present day, you know, we may not do.'

  Miss Pruitt smiled. 'Touché, Inspector.'


  Miles smiled back. 'Do you have any idea who wrote the note, Miss Pruitt? Might you have taught this person?'

  'It would be surprising if I didn't. But one would be doing well to recognise his writing after so long a time, especially in capital letters.'

  Miles paused at the door. 'Miss Pruitt, please accept our sincere condolences on your loss.'

  'Thank you,' said Miss Pruitt.

  'Chose her words carefully, I thought,' said Rattigan when they'd regained the car.

  'Knows or suspects something but keeping it to herself,' agreed Miles. 'Though possibly another skeleton in a different cupboard. I can't believe it's the identity of the intruder. She'd surely want him found and dealt with.'

  'Well, you'd think so. Good looking woman, isn't she? Doesn't seem old enough to be retired.'

  'Been left some money, I expect. She'd be about the right age for that.'

  'What do you make of the late Miss Titmus? No better than she should have been, by the sound of it.'

  Miles chuckled. 'Not just Ellen. According to Bullock it was a village thing then. That's what he implied anyway, and the vicar seemed to corroborate it. If a girl got pregnant someone married her.'

  'Must be the country air. That was a bit of a low dig at the vicar. Do you agree with her?'

  'Hard to say. He does seem to think he's lost an unpaid lay-confessor, and she wouldn't have been much of one if she'd gone straight to Miss Pruitt with her secrets. That's not to say there was anything in writing, of course. He was obliging enough to offer me details of the choir and bellringers of the time – something we must follow up, by the way – but declined to name Ellen's suitors, though he must surely know who some of them were.'

  'Where does this put your murder theory, sir?'

  'It stays just that, I suppose. If it was murder, I doubt there's more than a handful of possible suspects. It's a small place and always has been. However, before we go any further with that, we must see what the lads come up with. We don't want to waste time on it if Baverstock's alive. In the meantime we'll discreetly check alibis for Boxing Night. It should help that so many folk were at the dance, although they could have slipped away, early of course. First, though, I think we'll visit Sir Rupert.'

  'Baronet, would it be?'

  Miles grinned. 'Only a knighthood this time, and I expect he bought that. It'll be interesting to see what you make of him.'

  An isolated patch of forest separated Bettishaw Hall from the village, and the grand entrance was not in the High Street but in the northern arm of Long Lane that ran at right-angles to it. It was a pleasantly symmetrical, late Georgian house of no great size in thirty or so acres of parkland. Seeing the car approaching, Sir Rupert strolled out to meet them. Aged in his mid fifties, he was short, well-fed, and aggressively self-assured.

  'Thought you were avoiding us,' he said. 'Who's this?'

  Having made his introductions, Miles explained their mission, while Sir Rupert, occasionally grunting in response, examined the Vauxhall, peering in at the dashboard and standing back to view it from all angles.

  'Dashed nasty,' he said, crouching to examine the car's suspension. 'Never have thatch. Belongs in the stone age to my mind. One of the early ones is it?'

  'Nineteen twenty-two,' confirmed Miles. 'Rather lacking the mod cons, I'm afraid.'

  'Fast?'

  'I've had eighty out of her.'

  'Poor man's Bentley, so they say. Well I won't swop. You'd best come in.'

  Drinks were refused and cigarettes accepted. Sir Rupert, leaning against his desk, gazed down at them, one hand in his pocket. 'We saw the fire through the trees. Didn't see much point in going over there. What could we have done? Sad about the old gel, though; she was a dashed fine organist. What can I tell you?'

  'There is a connection,' said Miles, 'though it might seem a tenuous one. It's your nephew, Linsey Baverstock.'

  Sir Rupert nodded resignedly. 'Thought it might be. Girl in the household claimed he'd knocked her up. Not saying he didn't, but no proof. Couldn't blame her for trying. Passed away. Very sad.'

  'Yes she did. You know her son, presumably — Ian Titmus?'

  Sir Rupert shook his head. 'I'm aware of him, of course, but we've never spoken. How does this connect with the fire?'

  'It may or may not have been set deliberately,' said Miles. 'What we do know is that someone walked into the cottage that night, clobbered the family dog and hid the corpse in the rainwater butt. He may also have stolen an item which may have some connection with Mr Baverstock's disappearance.'

  'And what item was that?'

  'I'm not at liberty to tell you that, but it may suggest he didn't leave the village alive.'

  'Hmm. Rather a lot of "mays" there, if I may say so.' He smiled at his own joke. 'Is this a murder investigation?'

  'Not at present. I understand you searched for Mr Baverstock when he disappeared?'

  'Yes I did. Well, not personally. I cooperated fully with the police and also had a man working for me. Neither found him of course. Not that hard to lose oneself, I daresay; which one might want to do under the circumstances.'

  'What circumstances would those be, sir?'

  'Getting a girl in the family way, obviously. Why are you interested in him?'

  'I don't want to go into that at the moment. I understand you had a row with him, shortly before he disappeared.'

  'We had words, yes.'

  'Will you tell me what it was about?'

  'It's no secret. He wanted money, which I wouldn't give him.'

  'Very much?'

  'Two hundred pounds was mentioned, to get married.'

  'To Miss Titmus?'

  'He didn't specify and I didn't ask. He was far too young to marry anybody and he had no job, or any prospect of one. He hadn't worked since graduating. His parents died young and he'd spent his way through his inheritance. Blood being thicker than water I took him in.'

  'You didn't get on?'

  Sir Rupert shrugged. 'I like people who work and stand on their own two feet, not squander their capital and impregnate young woman. You know, I'm a little confused. What exactly are you investigating?'

  'Principally the intrusion into Miss Ashton's cottage and the possible theft of the item I mentioned. If it turns out to have been a simple burglary and if Mr Baverstock is found alive, that will be the end of the Yard's involvement.'

  'And if he's dead?'

  'We'd have to prove it, and also prove foul play.'

  'After twenty years? Good luck with that! I hope you'll keep me posted.'

  'Yes I will. Just one more thing. How soon after he left the Hall did Mr Baverstock disappear?'

  'My butler watched him leave one evening, which he will be able to confirm. He didn't say where he was going, so far as I'm aware. The young lady reported him missing the next day.'

  'But you didn't believe he was the father of her child?'

  'There was no proof, Felix. It could have been anybody's. Even if he had been, it was no concern of mine. He was over twenty-one. When are you bringing that pretty fiancée of yours to see us?'

  'I don't suppose I need ask?' said Miles as he piloted the Vauxhall down the long, curving drive.

  Rattigan chuckled. 'It's a particular sort of cockiness isn't it? You just know. How did he make his money?'

  'Something in the City, so they say. But he can't have been back from India long when he bought this place.'

  'Stole a ruby from the brow of a heathen idol. Probably be found one morning with a kukri in his back.'

  Miles chuckled. 'They're a long time coming then. He's been here twenty years at least.'

  'Do you think he murdered Baverstock?'

  'If he did, he's a cool customer. I suppose if the lad discovered something about him he might have had to be silenced.'

  'Or he might have tried blackmail to get his two-hundred pounds.'

  'That's a thought.'

  'One of your hunches, sir?'

  'Why do you say that?'


  'The way you questioned him, as if to pique his interest.'

  'Yes, I suppose I did. Can't tell you why, though.'

  Leaving his wife in charge of the shop, Cyril Harris took them across the road to the church, entering at the vestry side-door.

  'We keep the older stuff in here,' he said, unlocking a small room. 'What the libraries call a stack, I believe. Anyone can look if they ask, though no-one ever has, that I can recall. What year was it again?'

  'Nineteen hundred and six.'

  'Should be this one,' said Harris,' blowing dust off a folder. 'Oops, photos.'

  He bent to scoop them up. 'These ought to be interesting.' He selected one and gazed at it fondly. 'This takes me back all right! See the lady second-left? That's my Enid. Fine-looking woman she was then; in her prime, so to say. Not that she isn't now, of course. Fine-looking, I mean.'

  Perusing the plain and bespectacled Mrs Harris, her frizzy mop of hair severely centre-parted, Miles smiled politely. 'And this is the choir of that year?'

  'Yes, says it on the back, and who they are. I don't know that they're all in the photo, but here's the full list.'

  'That's excellent. Thank you. Which one is you?'

  'Next to Mr Shepherd. Youth and beauty long departed, alas.'

  'Say not so, Mr Harris. You have simply matured, like a fine wine. And you know all these people?'

  'Yes, of course, though one or two are no longer with us. Ellen Titmus is gone, poor little lass, that's her in the front row, and young Cecil Shadbolt. Died in the war, he did — Passchendaele. You'll know Gabriel Shutler, of course, at the other end.'