'I don't think we'll bother with those, Reverend,' said Miles gently.
'Quite right too,' said Miss Pruitt, nursing a broken arm. 'It was I who murdered Bill Rowsell.'
'Don't be foolish, Beatrice,' said the vicar. 'The Inspector knows perfectly well that I did it, although how he worked it out, I'm at a loss to explain.' Suddenly he shuddered. 'Doctor, I can't feel my legs.'
Chapter Twelve
The Chief Constable of Wessex was one of those people who seem to fill a room, making its familiar furnishings and proportions disturbingly smaller. Whisky in hand, he was not so much ensconced beside the fire as enthroned there. The rest of the family, meanwhile, were entertaining his driver in the kitchen.
'Well, you know how I work by now, Felix,' said Sir Neville affably. 'I've skimmed your report but I really want to hear it from you, delivered in your own inimitable style. Pray proceed, young man.'
Miles, just turned thirty-three, smiled. 'I suppose,' he said, settling to his task, 'that if this were a drama, its protagonist would be Miss Beatrice Pruitt and its antagonist Bill Rowsell. The vicar's part, though significant, is a smaller one. Pruitt, an educated and attractive woman, was thirty-two at the time of Linsey Baverstock's death, and had been a well-respected teacher at the village school for some eight years, four of them as headmistress. She was not maternal by nature, and like many women in her position she was unwilling to give up her career for matrimony. She had, however, a normal attraction to men, and was eager for physical love. She also yearned to travel, while not having the means to do so.'
'Not entirely contented, then?' suggested Sir Neville dryly.
'No, sir. But then came Rowsell, at that time nineteen years old. A sturdy but socially awkward lad, he worked on the family farm beside his domineering widowed father; his mother having died soon after he left school. Religious from an early age he grew up fanatically so, with a strong Old Testament bent.'
'Duty before grace, as you might say?'
'Very much so, sir. Where that came from I don't know. It might have been his mother, or perhaps it was a clever form of rebellion. One can hardly slap a boy down for an interest in religion. He was also sexually innocent until awakened by the earthy Josie Clement, or Josie Mills, as she was then. With no sense of his limitations he then courted the village siren, Ellen Titmus, who led him on for a week or two before tossing him aside for Linsey Baverstock.
'It was Rowsell, head over heels in love with Ellen and unable to articulate his anger and desperation, who left the note on her carol-service score. "You keep away from that Baverstock, Ellen Titmus, or there'll be trouble." He was not a bold young man, and it's a measure of his state of mind that he was driven to do something like that. Ellen, however, laughed at the threat and dismissed it to the extent of leaving the score lying about the church, where anyone could have seen it. Some incurious person then tidied it into the organ bench, where it remained for twenty years. A few weeks later, she and Baverstock put up the banns. After trying out, as the vicar would have put it, every eligible young man in the parish she had made her choice.
'On the night of Baverstock's pre-nuptial move from Bettishaw Hall, a group of Ellen's rejected suitors, seeing him go by, decided to rag him a bit, pushing him back and forth between them, pinching his hat and so on. It was mere horseplay, and they were horrified when without the slightest warning he fell down dead. It does happen occasionally, according to my father, often on the sports field; a weakness that no-one suspected. To all appearances, however, they'd killed the nephew of the village squire, by local standards, a toff. Fortunately the vicar and Miss Pruitt happened upon them and Pruitt quickly took command. The lads were told to clear off and say nothing and Baverstock was hurried into concealment in the nearby churchyard. Only Rowsell, who had stood apart from the fracas, remained to help. He was thus a witness to the discovery of the tiara, which Baverstock had been wearing, one assumes for safety, around his neck.
'After some debate, it was decided that Baverstock would have to disappear. The alternative, which was to report his death, might have proved very unpleasant, even fatal, for those young men, all of whom Pruitt had taught, and for whom she no doubt felt a continuing affection and responsibility. The vicar, reluctantly in agreement, seems to have left the practicalities to Pruitt. Hers was the stronger personality and she was used to giving orders and having them obeyed.'
'Hmm, I see,' said Sir Neville. 'So how did they dispose of the body? Secretly bury him somewhere? Dump him in the forest?'
'One assumes they found an effective method, since his remains were never discovered,' said Miles disingenuously, 'The tiara, however, was a greater problem. It looked valuable - possibly very valuable. Clearly they couldn't tell anyone about it, and they had no way of knowing whether Baverstock owned it or had stolen it, or was looking after it for someone else. The vicar, a rather unworldly man, couldn't be persuaded to take much interest in it, and we believe Pruitt took it home, pending a decision on its fate. It was probably also she who took away and disposed of Baverstock's luggage. All in all, it was a pretty slick operation. There remained nothing to prove he hadn't fled the village.'
'No doubt you're going to tell me Pruitt kept the tiara for herself. Women and jewellery and all that.'
'We think she held onto it, yes, although we can't prove it. But perhaps she had little choice. No doubt she would have waited to see if Sir Rupert – the most likely owner – would report its loss, and when he didn't, she would have inferred that it somehow belonged to Baverstock; for surely no-one would allow so magnificent a piece to be taken from them without publicity or complaint? She would probably have wanted it to go to Ellen, but the one person who must never know what had happened to Baverstock was Ellen Titmus. Those involved knew about the death, of course, but only Pruitt, the vicar and Rowsell ever knew about the tiara.'
'And did Rowsell approve of this deception?'
'No, sir, he didn't. A man had died, and in his view they should have told the truth about it, regardless of the consequences.'
'In which he was right, of course.'
'Oh indeed,' agreed Miles. 'And had they owned up, it's perfectly possible that no blame would have attached to them. But who, under the circumstances, would have risked his neck to find out? This was a problem for Pruitt who knew that Rowsell would have to be somehow silenced or he might betray them all. But how? Money wouldn't have tempted him – root of all evil and all that – but fortunately she had something that only a saint would refuse, and Rowsell wasn't quite that. He was a good-looking lad, and, nothing loath, she took him into her bed.'
'Thus killing two birds with one stone, so to say,' chuckled Sir Neville.
Miles smiled politely. 'Yes, sir. The wonder is that it lasted. Sex was all they had in common, and Rowsell's conscience never ceased to trouble him. Nevertheless he stuck to her, probably knowing that no-one else would have him. Pruitt, however, became thoroughly sick of him. He grew to be a sanctimonious, moralising prig, still under the thumb of his father, who knew nothing of their affair, and a millstone round her neck. Perhaps it's no surprise that she began to think of herself a little. Eventually – again, this is our assumption – she detached one of the gems from the tiara, got it valued, and sold it. I'll come to that shortly.
'I suspect that much of the money went on treats for her and Miss Ashton – we know there was a tour of Greece and its antiquities – and she could no longer have been under any illusion as to what the whole tiara must be worth. Commonsense would have told her that such a piece could not have been the legal property of Linsey Baverstock, and that its true owner, or perhaps his insurer, would be on the lookout for it, probably indefinitely. However, she was now set on her course, and since they are missing we assume it was she who removed and sold two more stones. What she did with the proceeds we don't know, but they would probably keep her in comfortable retirement for life. She might have considered that small compensation for being stuck with Rowsell. About him she coul
d do nothing, or risk the whole story coming out — she was trapped. How she must have hoped he'd die in the war, but he chose not to go, being a farmer.
'Then, all these years later, came the discovery of the fatal music score. Pruitt, it turns out, knew all about it, Ellen having asked her at the time to identify the writer. You will remember that she had been Rowsell's teacher, and knew his hand. Ellen did not, however, tell her aunt about it, probably to avoid criticism for leading yet another boy up the garden path. Indeed, Miss Ashton never knew more about Baverstock's fate than did Ellen. Innocently, she now showed the note to one of Baverstock's original tormenters, and he, in turn, alerted the others, all now with wives and families, and pillars, in their various ways, of the community. They'll have guessed the identity of the writer – it wasn't, after all, one of them – and painfully aware of its implications, they were justifiably concerned. There was, however, little they could do, beyond hoping it wouldn't go further than Miss Ashton.
'But worse was to come. It's my guess that one of them confronted Rowsell over it – unwisely, in the event – for something must have made him choose the Boxing Day dance to inform them in front of their wives that he planned to tell all about the Baverstock business and their part in it. He seems to have had little insight, and I suppose he assumed that after so long a time they would agree with him. The result was consternation in two of them and a furious response from a third, leading to a scuffle on the dance floor. Thoroughly unnerved by this show of hostility, Rowsell left the dance and walked into Glebe Cottage, finding and pocketing the offending note, killing, in the process, the family dog and inadvertently starting the fire that may or may not have killed Cicely Ashton. Obviously he couldn't tell Pruitt what he'd done. Instead he went and confessed to the vicar before running for home, struggling back to Long Bettishaw through the rapidly deepening snow.
'That put the vicar on the spot. Knowing the likely consequence of leaving the dog where it was, he was obliged the next day to recover and bury it himself - snatching it, indeed, from under my nose - but then felt morally bound to tell Miss Pruitt what had occurred. Between them they agreed that with half the village at risk from the now thoroughly unstable Bill Rowsell, he had somehow to be dealt with.
'But even while they were together, discussing the means of doing so, Rowsell turned up at the rectory, the first time he'd been back to the village since the fire. Slipping into the vicar's study through the garden door, as he so often had before, he found himself facing the pair of them. Pruitt must have felt like tearing him limb from limb, especially when he announced that he was on his way that very afternoon to tell me his story. They remained calm, however, and tried to talk him out of it, and when that proved impossible, persuaded him to allow the vicar to go with him. Any plans they might have laid now went out of the window — this was an emergency. Pocketing the first heavy object that came to hand – a small, stone Buddha – the vicar went and got into Rowsell's car. I suppose his intention was to attack him while he was driving, but Rowsell decided to stop first at the garage and fill his tank. It was lunchtime and the pump being unattended, he operated it himself. The vicar then followed him into the empty garage, walloped him over the head and tumbled him into the unguarded vehicle inspection pit before scurrying back to the rectory and Pruitt. No-one reported seeing him. It was only then that he realised he'd lost the Buddha.
'What to do? I think we can assume that Pruitt now took over, calming him down and marching him back to the garage to look for it. With luck, they no doubt thought, no-one would have been in there. Alas, they were too late. Josie Clement was waiting in her truck for Rowsell to come out and move his car. Becoming impatient – she had a cargo of weaners to deliver – Mrs Clement eventually went into the garage before reappearing and crying for help. The plotters had no choice but to rush to her aid and involve themselves in the aftermath of the assault. I suspect Pruitt remained behind to look for the Buddha but was unable to find it. It was, in fact, hidden by the body, from where the vicar managed to retrieve it under the pretext of praying for Mr Rowsell's soul. Eventually it reappeared where it belonged, acting as a paperweight on the vicar's desk, with no evidence it had ever left there.'
'Then how did you know it had?' asked Sir Neville.
Miles smiled wearily. 'I didn't, sir; I guessed. The whole thing was guesswork from start to finish. I like to think they were educated guesses, but they were guesses all the same. You could put the concrete facts we learned in this case on a postcard and leave room for the address and stamp, but we got our man, and I'll tell you how.' He indicated the whisky. 'Top up, sir?'
'Don't mind if I do, Felix. Thankee,' said the Chief Constable. 'Thirsty work, what?'
'Not much more, sir. It began, of course, with my discovery of the dog. Before that, I'd assumed, like everyone else, that the fire was an accident. Then my sister mentioned Cecily Ashton's finding of the old carol service score with its threatening note. I felt immediately it was what the intruder into Glebe Cottage had been looking for, and it seemed reasonable to suppose he was the author of it. That he was so keen to get it back also suggested Linsey Baverstock was the victim of foul play, or why was it so important to him? As it turned out, that wasn't quite right, but it increased my interest in the case considerably. My problem was that no-one would tell me anything. Usually one relies on drawing together little pieces of evidence from the various folk involved, but there was no evidence; they made sure of that. And if they were seldom demonstrably lying, no-one was giving me the information I needed. It was like dealing with a large, close-knit and uncooperative family; by no means a fanciful comparison in Bettishaw. I was, in fact, flailing about for some time and getting nowhere, either with regard to the cottage fire or the Linsey Baverstock business. I ought really to say "we," for by now Rattigan had arrived, and I wish, frankly, I'd brought the rest of the team, because then came the murder of Bill Rowsell.'
'A nasty business.'
'Yes it was. But again no-one would admit to knowing anything. We couldn't even trust the accounts of those at the scene. Then, in Rowsell's room, we discovered his diary and his eccentric draft letter to me, and things began at last to come together. The letter, with its apparent insistence that Baverstock's death was due to natural causes and its suggestion that Rowsell was nevertheless being bribed to keep quiet about it caused us a great deal of head scratching, but was, as it turned out, essentially correct. It gave us something to think about at least, and the theory we constructed on the strength of it was not, in the event, so very wide of the mark. We also learned from his elderly father that Rowsell had for a while courted Ellen Titmus, though he couldn't recall her name, and the timing of that friendship strongly suggested it was Rowsell who wrote the note on the score. I had previously asked Josie Clement if Rowsell and Ellen might have got together at some point - she had, after all, walked out with most of the young men in the parish - and Josie's rather firm rejection of the idea helped to confirm us in our suspicions. It seemed to us wholly improbable that she hadn't known about it.
'But if Rowsell was the author of the threatening note, was it he who entered Glebe Cottage on the night of the fire? I'd previously overlooked him, thinking it was probably one of the choristers of that time, given their more likely access to Ellen's carol service score. Also, if it was he who dumped the dog in the rainwater butt, how could he have snatched it back the next day? He was, as far as we could tell, snowbound in Long Bettishaw, with no evidence that anyone had come in from there that morning, or left again. Later I learned that he'd often spent time praying in the church, which possibly solved the score problem. But if he'd killed the dog, someone else must have taken it away for him, and who might that have been? He had, it seemed, no close friends, so who could be prevailed upon to do such a thing? It could hardly have been Pruitt, under the circumstances. Quite late I began to wonder about the vicar. He'd have had the opportunity, and who would suspect him if seen with a dog-sized bundle under his arm? But why
would he shield Rowsell? Was he simply protecting a parishioner from possible prosecution – it certainly fitted what we knew of him – or was it because he considered that concealing from me the events of twenty years ago was more important than revealing the truth about the fire? What part, I wondered, did he play in those events? And if even the Vicar of St John's knew about them, who did not?
'However, returning to the draft letter. What were those temptations of the flesh that Rowsell had so reluctantly renounced? With what had he been bribed? Was it the "gold and silver" he mentioned, or was it his carnal needs that were being attended to? Or was the former merely contributing towards satisfying the latter? A clue perhaps lay in his diary. "Buy petrol" featured regularly, suggesting a high mileage. Was he visiting the fleshpots of Southampton or Portsmouth? But when we checked his car, his mileage appeared small. Clearly we were wrong, but again it put us on the right track. It appeared that Rowsell had been in the habit of going somewhere after Sunday church, ostensibly to give the car a run. His father, who knows nothing of cars or how much petrol they use, had been happy to accept that. Where was he really going? Did he perhaps have a lady friend in the village, and who might that have been? If she was connected with the Baverstock business, she would have had to be at least sixteen at the time, which meant thirty-six or more now, and if she was a married woman, probably much older, for a young bride was hardly likely to have taken on the role. Indeed, since few married women of any age would be likely to sustain an affair for twenty years, least of all with the rebarbative Rowsell, she was probably single or widowed, and, one assumed, not entirely unattractive, at least to begin with. The only person known to me who appeared to qualify on those counts was Pruitt. It seemed so improbable that I might have rejected the notion out of hand if I hadn't twigged the rather obvious code in the diary: Buy Petrol - Beatrice Pruitt! There is no accounting for taste, of course, but for me there could only be one explanation for so improbable an association: Beatrice Pruitt had been absolutely central to the events surrounding the death of Baverstock, and desperate to avoid them being discovered had seduced the youthful Rowsell to prevent him from spilling the beans. It was so crazy it had to be true.'
A Country Way of Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 4) Page 18