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

by R. A. Bentley

  Miss Pruitt sat in thought for even longer than usual, and it occurred to Miles how unnerving it must have been for some young miscreant called to her study. Finally she sighed. 'Mr Felix, I'm an old maid, and a well-known characteristic of old maids is their love of tittle-tattle. I am not altogether immune from that weakness and I could tell you a thing, but you must promise me faithfully not to breath a word of it, or much harm may be done.'

  'Provided it's not material to our case,' smiled Miles, 'you have our word as officers and gentlemen.'

  'Honorary gentleman, in my case, ma'am,' chuckled Rattigan.

  'I'm sure you are the perfect one, Sergeant,' said Miss Pruitt, bowing towards him. 'I cannot imagine this will have any bearing on your case, but it will clear up a minor mystery for you, and perhaps save you wasting time on it. Sir Rupert is an interesting man. He leads the life of a country squire but he strikes me as a bit of a rogue, or has been in the past. However, there is more to him than that. I expect he told you he refused to have any truck with Ellen?'

  'Yes, he did.'

  'Well that's nonsense of course. He gave her four hundred pounds, the residue of which is presently putting Ian through agricultural college. He also paid for her funeral. He is the kindest of men, and has, I'm afraid, been thoroughly taken advantage of.'

  Miles nodded, enlightened. 'So that explains . . .'

  'Why the real father won't acknowledge Ian as his son? I believe so, yes.'

  'Martin Bullock, then?'

  'Mr Bullock proposed to Ellen, certainly. He was just a lad of twenty then, and all he could offer her was himself, which she refused.'

  'Who told Bullock about the money?'

  'Cecily did. He was always her favourite and she was annoyed with Ellen for turning him down. Quite rightly, in my opinion. But there — she'd made her choice.'

  'You approved of him not telling Sir Rupert?'

  'All he cared about was Ellen. He probably took the view that Sir Rupert could easily afford it. And I must stress that it's only my observation that he's Ian's father. It could have been someone else entirely, though the resemblance is quite marked. I've seen a good many fathers and sons in my time.'

  'I suppose you have. What about Ian? Does he know this?'

  'About the money? No. Cecily promised Sir Rupert not to tell him. Perhaps he feared a repeat of Linsey's importuning.'

  'But she told you.'

  'Yes.'

  'Does Ian know who his father is?'

  'I don't know. You must assume he thinks it's Linsey.'

  Miles sat in thought for a moment. 'Miss Pruitt,' he asked formally, 'do you know who killed Linsey Baverstock?'

  'If he was killed. No, I don't. I don't, however, believe that he was.'

  'What about Bill Rowsell?

  Glancing sadly across at Glebe Cottage she shook her head. 'That is most distressing, on top of everything.'

  'Do you know who killed him?'

  'No.'

  'Did you kill him, Miss Pruitt?'

  Miss Pruitt smiled. 'That is interesting. Does anyone ever admit to it?'

  'Not often, but the responses can be illuminating.'

  'Well, I hope mine was the correct one.'

  Miles stood up to leave. 'All right, Miss Pruit, thank you again.' He glanced at the book on the table. 'We'll leave you to your Sophocles.'

  'Antigone,' confirmed Miss Pruitt. 'I'm re-reading him. I find that time hangs rather heavily at the moment.'

  'A sop to Cerberus?' said Rattigan as they regained the car.

  'Yes. Though I could wish it hadn't been about Bulloch,' said Miles. 'How am I to hide it from my future brother-in-law, and my own sister?'

  'Do they have an understanding, then, Titmus and Daisy?'

  'So it would appear, and I'm delighted, but its getting darned awkward to remember who is supposed to know what about what. I find it a little hard to believe, you know, that the lad can be entirely in the dark about all this, if it's true. And they do rather resemble one another you know. It's all very well for her to think it can have no bearing on the case but it comes a little too close for my liking. If only we could be sure that Rowsell was right and Baverstock wasn't murdered then it wouldn't be so bad, but of course we can't be.'

  'If Bulloch had a motive for killing Baverstock, what about Rowsell too? It could be all of a piece.'

  'It seems unlikely – he's coming out of this rather well – but who can say?'

  'His man might have lied for him. So would Shutler probably.'

  'Well, they might have. Hello, strangers in town.'

  But even as he pointed them out, Miles sensed Rattigan stiffen beside him.

  'Take a quick look, sir, then study this.'

  Miles did as he was told, noting, with a single, practiced glance, a tall, thin man wearing down-at-heel shoes, a double-breasted Ulster, too short for him, and a trilby. His plump, bowler-hatted companion, half a head shorter, was wearing only an expensive-looking tweed suit. The note Rattigan had passed to him was a laundry receipt. 'One and ninepence!' he said. 'You was robbed. Who is it? Do you know?'

  'Safe to look up now, sir. Have you heard of Sam Frampton? He's the shorter one.'

  Miles wrinkled his brow in recollection. 'Frampton, Frampton. Some sort of thief. No, don't tell me. . . Jewellery was it? Ah! The Horowitz diamonds. Just after the war.'

  'Well remembered, sir. Yes it was. Something of an expert apparently; only pinches the best. Been out a while by the look of him, and doing all right for himself, judging by the schmutter. The only reason I know him by sight, apart from the newspapers, is because he was picked up for something earlier and I happened to be at the identity parade. He got away with it on that occasion. What do you suppose he's doing here?'

  'Up to no good without a doubt. And the other fellow looks like trouble too.'

  'Going into the Bell now. Wanting rooms?'

  'Or looking for someone perhaps. We'd best see Archie later and get the dope on them. We don't want to frighten them off until we know what they're about.'

  Rattigan indicated a new-looking Crossley saloon. 'That'll be their eighteen-fifty very likely. Someone must be doing all right.'

  They were sitting in the kitchen, Connie busy at the stove.

  'Where's Mother?' enquired Miles. 'I know where Dad is; we saw him outside Mrs Wheeler's.'

  'Mrs Wheeler has had another of her turns,' said Daisy. 'Mummy is getting one of Connie's dresses altered. She's going to wear it tonight.'

  'New Year's Eve?' said Connie, raising an interrogative eyebrow. 'The Trenchards?'

  Miles pulled a face. 'I hadn't forgotten. I thought they'd have cancelled, under the circumstances.'

  'They have. It's just them and your parents now, and us if we want to go.'

  'Have you sold it to her, the dress?'

  'No, of course not. She wanted to pay me but I wouldn't let her. Elbows off tables please, I want to set the plates down. Are we going?'

  'Mmm, smells delicious, eh Teddy?' said Miles. 'Is this your handiwork, darling?'

  'Yes it is. Are we going?'

  Miles grinned at her annoyingly. 'And perfect pastry too! Bodes well for domestic bliss. You won't be going presumably, Daisy?'

  Daisy shook her head. 'We're having a quiet dinner with the Bullochs and Shutlers. One has to eat after all, so it might as well be together. I'm bound to admit, I won't miss Poona. Can't you be pale and wan, Connie? I'll back you up.'

  'Offer gratefully accepted,' said Miles, poking at his plate. 'Bert again?'

  'Afraid so,' said Connie. 'He brought it round this morning and one can hardly waste it. Oh I'm so glad we're not going; I was dreading it.'

  'I don't know what we'll do instead, mind,' said Miles doubtfully. 'Any ideas, darling?'

  'Interesting taste,' said Rattigan with his mouth full. 'Oregano, would it be?'

  'Oh dear, is it too strong?' said Connie, looking reproachfully at Miles. 'Maybe I overdid it a bit.'

  'Not at all, Connie, it's
delicious.'

  'Has Anne Piper baked you one of her famous cherry cakes yet, Teddy?' asked Daisy.

  'Er, yes. As a matter of fact she has. Why?'

  'Because the way to your heart is clearly through your stomach. You should watch she doesn't get her hooks into you.'

  'It's his heart I worry about,' said Miles. 'In physiological sense. What's this theory you mentioned?'

  'It's just about Rowsell's diary and letter. We've been studying them. You don't mind, do you?'

  'Not in the least. Whom do we arrest?'

  'Oh, we don't know that, but we've been contemplating the bribery angle.'

  '"The lust of the flesh," eh?' smiled Miles.

  'But first of all,' said Connie, colouring slightly, 'have you found if he's got money?'

  'We've seen no evidence of any. No books or new-looking clothes. In fact, scarcely any possessions at all. Quite the ascetic, was Bill. Probably lived on locusts and wild honey.'

  'Though we haven't looked into bank accounts yet,' cautioned Rattigan. 'He might have squirrelled it away somewhere.'

  'Well he might of course,' said Daisy. 'But we think he was spending it on women.'

  'How so?'

  'Because Daddy says all men want sex and they usually find a way of getting it, and he wasn't married and didn't have a lady friend, that we know of, which just leaves prostitutes, so it must be that.' She frowned at them. 'What's so funny? It's true, isn't it?'

  'The young women of today, eh Teddy?' chuckled Miles. 'We Victorians must try not to be shocked. Yes, broadly it's true, although appetites vary, you know, and sometimes it can be sublimated into something else. Consider Mr Shepherd, for example —'

  'Oh, he sleeps with Mrs Pinnick,' said Daisy dismissively. 'Everyone knows that.'

  'You may laugh,' said Connie, when she could make herself heard, 'but the diary suggests we're right. If you go through it, it's rather interesting because there's very little in it except for "dentist, eleven-thirty" and "Buttercup, second drops," and so on, but every week or two he's got "buy petrol." No other provisions, just petrol.'

  'Yes, I noticed that,' said Rattigan.

  'And did you wonder why he needed so much?' said Daisy. 'Where did he go? He used the cart for delivering the milk and he wouldn't have used a tankful a fortnight just to go to church and so on. Even Daddy doesn't use that much. And he was unlikely to be just topping up because Long's four miles away and it would be a waste going back and forth for a gallon or so, wouldn't it?'

  'Miles began to be interested. 'I suppose that's true. It might be worth asking Stan about it. So are you saying he was visiting the fleshpots of Southampton or somewhere and that's where the money went?'

  'Yes, until at last he was instructed and smote his thigh,' said Daisy with satisfaction.

  'Not in a hurry, was he?' chuckled Rattigan. 'Twenty years!'

  '"Oh Lord give me chastity, only not yet,"' smiled Miles, recalling St Augustine. 'Well it's possible, although according to his father he seldom went far afield. Not sure where it gets us though. We can't question every working girl in Hampshire, and he mightn't have told them anything useful anyway.'

  'He might have had a mistress somewhere,' said Rattigan.

  'Yes, he might. But where would you start looking? Is it really true about the vicar and Mrs Pinnick? I find it hard enough to imagine a Mr Pinnick.'

  The telephone rang.

  'I'll go,' said Daisy. She came swiftly back. 'It's Sir Rupert for you, Miles.'

  'I had a feeling it might be,' said Miles, rising. 'Come on Teddy. And Connie darling, you'd best put in some practice for later.'

  'Practice at what?'' said Connie, blushing furiously.

  'Looking pale and wan; you're not doing very well at the moment.'

  'What did he say?' asked Rattigan, as they dropped yet again down the hill.

  'Just that he wanted urgently to see us. It'll be a bit of a coincidence if it isn't about our suspicious strangers.'

  Turning left into Long Lane, they were just in time to see Sir Rupert's Bentley pulling away from the gates.

  'That was Her Ladyship presumably,' said Rattigan. 'Had her maid with her, by the look of it.'

  'Clearing out before they arrive, do you think?'

  Sir Rupert answered the door himself. He looked, Miles thought, like a thoroughly worried man. He led the way to his study.

  'Thanks for coming so swiftly, gentlemen. I appreciate that. Drink? You'll probably need one by the time you've heard all this.' He settled them with cigarettes and whisky before beginning his tale, all the while pacing up and down and constantly peering out the window.

  'I won't beat about the bush, as there may not be much time. I've had a nasty shock and I want your help. I probably don't deserve it, but I'm asking for it anyway. First, however, I must beg your indulgence while I give you some background information, which you'll need. People always want to know how a rich man made his money, don't they? Usually I leave them guessing, but you I'm going to tell, for reasons that will become clear.

  'I'm retired now, and have been for some years, but before that I was an underwriter, specialising in the gambling industry. If someone really had "broke the bank at Monte Carlo" it would probably have been my syndicate that covered the losses. Not, I'm glad to say, that anyone ever did in my time. Respectable? That's for you to decide. Profitable? Very.' He observed them cynically for a moment. 'Doesn't surprise you? Hard to surprise a policeman, I daresay. I'm not ashamed of my business; don't think that. I wouldn't care who knew, personally, but the wife doesn't like it, and I don't want to show her up.

  'However, that's by the by. Where, you will be wondering, did I get my seed capital? How did I get that essential leg-up on the ladder to riches? Years of slog? Inherited? Not at all. I raised it in about, oh, two hours. Hanging onto it was the hard part! I was a bit wild when I was a youngster, a bit of a hooligan, truth be told; always in trouble for some wickedness or other and not that able academically, except at maths. Always good at maths. Runs in the family. That's how I began gambling really. Not a good thing to get involved in, but my interest in it was academic as you might say. I was fascinated by chance, by odds, that sort of thing, and I did quite well out of it in a small way - horses, dogs, cards. Stopped me getting into worse mischief, very likely. What to do with a lad like that? Accountant? Actuary? My father, bless his memory, knew better than that. After Harrow he put me through Sandhurst. "That'll knock the piss out of you, my lad," he said. "Then we'll see." A few months later I was in India. Marvellous, it was. Polo, pig-sticking, tiger shooting! No money in it, of course. It [cost ]money just to keep up, and frankly I couldn't. My old man was an engineer - bridges, mostly. We were comfortable but not rich. No money coming from that direction. Eventually I palled up with a fellow who was in the same case. We tended to go off on adventures of our own; it was cheaper! Anyway, on one occasion we found ourselves drinking in one of those squalid brothels the Indians seem to specialise in. You watch 'em dance and pick one out. Pretty, some of 'em, I'll say that.

  'Towards the end of the evening, when, I regret to say, I was pretty sloshed, this shifty-looking Hindu fellow introduces himself, warns us off the girls, not that we needed warning, and asks if we'd like to make some money. A certain maharajah – can't recall his name – was marrying his daughter to another one, and she was heading south on the back of an elephant with a trousseau worth thousands. One of those fancy caravansaries it was - umpteen servants, musicians, dancers, chucking pennies at beggars, the lot. Just a few miles a day and making a big show of it as they came. Now, the Hindu's employer apparently reckoned some of the stuff had been pinched from his family – a diamond necklace and tiara – and he'd commissioned this fellow to pinch it back. Might have been true, might not. He was looking for a couple of toughs with brains, or words to that effect, to help him do the dirty work. Again, probably more to it than that, but it's all I ever knew. Claimed he couldn't pay us anything, but whatever we could get away with we
could keep, just so long as he got his necklace and tiara. They had, so he said, sentimental value. Said he knew he could trust us as we were British.

  'Anyway, I was drunk enough to be keen on it, but my pal, very sensibly, wasn't, so he cleared off back to barracks and I found myself working with the Hindu and another English fellow, name of Travis. No idea of his background. Well-spoken but tough as they come. I was pretty tough myself then, though you mightn't believe it now, but he made me feel like a dough-ball. Reckoned he'd worked as a mercenary among other things but this promised to be far more profitable. Anyway we got on well enough and agreed that given the chance we'd clear off and leave the Hindu stranded.

  'A couple of nights later we did the job. It turned out to be remarkably easy, almost as if they wanted us to have the stuff. No-one even got hurt, not then, and we managed to give the Indian the slip. The problem was to escape. We'd taken the train to a small, scruffy town where we knew they'd be stopping for the night and where the police were unlikely to trouble us much. That was the Hindu's idea. What he didn't tell us, though he must surely have known, was that the town belonged to the groom. Once they knew what had happened, the townsfolk were coming at us all ways, shouting and waving their arms about like they do, and eventually cutting us off. We were disguised, obviously, but they seemed to know who we were all the same. Then the shooting started. Travis got one in the thigh and I got one through my hand,' he held it up to show them the scar. 'And that seemed to be that - end of Rupert. Then a door opened and we were dragged inside. We'd been saved by a retired English corporal and his Indian family.

  'I can't say he was exactly glad to help. He cursed us for fools and a disgrace to our regiment – true on both counts, of course – but he patched us up a bit and told us to clear off as soon as it got dark. By nightfall, however, Travis was in a high fever and wasn't going anywhere. What to do? There was little enough chance of getting away, but probably none if I stayed where I was, so I gave the fellow a diamond sari pin, told him to do what he could for Travis and cleared off. I didn't think he'd survive, to be honest. You can be dead in a day out there if you get so much as a graze, and it was a nasty wound. Not that mine was much better, but I managed to stay upright and compos mentis and it didn't go too nasty on me. Smashed the hand up though. Can't do much with it, even now.