Forgotten Murder

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘No, I can’t say I do. How are they?’ asked Bill. He’d met Winnie and Ted Hinton a few times and liked them very much.

  Charlie Church’s face crinkled in pleasure. ‘They’re fine. But my word, the grandchildren are growing up! Ethel and I took them to the zoo yesterday. Ethel and Winnie are shopping today, and that’s not something I want to get involved with.’

  ‘Women are best left to shop alone,’ said Bill with a grin. ‘I bet the kids enjoyed the zoo.’

  ‘They had a high old time and no mistake,’ said Mr Church, taking a hefty swig of beer. ‘They’re dead keen on animals. In fact, it’s animals – or at least one animal – that’s brought me up to this part of town. It’s probably something and nothing, but I thought I might as well have a stroll up to the Yard and report it.’ He grinned. ‘And, of course, with the day being warm and The Heroes on the way …’

  ‘Well, I’m very glad to have bumped into you, Mr Church. What’s this animal story? The one that brings you to the Yard, I mean? Has a carter been mistreating his horses?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that. It’s one of the grandchildren, little Louise. She’s got a pet cat who went missing.’

  ‘Really?’ said Bill, guardedly. Privately he thought that Charlie Church’s standards of crime suitable for investigation by the police had gone seriously downhill if he thought Scotland Yard would be interested in a lost cat. ‘I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Mr Church with a laugh, wiping the beer from his mouth. ‘I wouldn’t get the Yard out for a cat. No, what happened was that, as I said, little Louise’s cat went missing and she was terribly upset. Well, for three days, we looked high and low. There was no sign of it, but Louise insisted she could hear Buttons – that’s the cat – meowing in her bedroom at night. Proper took on, she did, because we couldn’t find it in her bedroom. That’s partly why we took the kids to the zoo, to try and take her mind off it. Anyway, last night, I went in to say goodnight, and blow me, this time I heard it, clear as day. I couldn’t see anything but this morning I went into Louise’s bedroom once more and there it was again.’

  ‘So where was it?’ asked Bill.

  ‘The sound was coming from the fireplace, up the chimney from the flat below. We worked out which one was the right flat, but there was no one in. Louise called through the door, and we could hear Buttons right enough, so we went and got the porter. Anyway, to cut a long story short, although the porter had pass keys, Mrs Davenham – that’s the woman who owns the flat – had changed the locks. In the end Ted and I had to force the door.’

  This story could get grim, thought Bill, taking a swig of beer. However, if Mr Church had found a dead body in the flat, he’d have hardly regaled him with a tale of a lost pet cat or, for that matter, stopped off for a pint on the way to the Yard.

  ‘You forced the door? She won’t like that when she comes home,’ commented Bill.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose she will. Anyway, poor Buttons shot out like a bat out of hell. Louise made a big fuss of the poor thing, of course, and I and the porter took a little look round. What had happened was that the kitchen window had been loose. Buttons had obviously got in that way and then the window had blown shut behind it.’

  ‘You went into the flat?’ asked Bill.

  Mr Church nodded. ‘Yes, we did. The porter was concerned that Mrs Davenham might have been taken ill, you see, and be in the flat with no one knowing she was there. Buttons had been missing since Wednesday, so it’s been the best part of four days now. Anyway, Mrs Davenham wasn’t there, which, I might say was a bit of a relief, as I immediately thought the worst. That’s what comes of being a copper for forty years.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Bill wryly. ‘The job wears off on you. I think it’s worth mentioning that forced lock at the Yard, though. You don’t want to be had up for breaking and entering.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Mr Church with a laugh. ‘The porter’s had the lock replaced and he’s got the key, so everything’s safe and sound, but I still want to mention it in case Mrs Davenham kicks up a fuss when she gets back.’

  ‘How long’s she away for?’

  ‘No one knows,’ said Mr Church with a shrug. ‘I left a note with the porter, asking her to get in touch with the Yard when she gets back, just to be on the safe side. I don’t want any unpleasantness for Winnie and Ted about that lock. I want her to come to us first. It wouldn’t be the first time this Mrs Davenham had gone off for a few days without mentioning it, but still …’

  ‘There’s probably nothing to it,’ said Bill with a shrug, ‘but you never know.’ He grinned. ‘That’s the job speaking again. Always expect the worst.’

  ‘Talking of the job,’ said Mr Church, raising his glass, ‘congratulations on your promotion. Chief Inspector! I remember when you first joined the force …’

  And the conversation drifted off into remembrances.

  ‘The cigarettes are in the box on the table,’ said Jack hospitably that evening, handing Bill a whisky and soda.

  They were in the newly-decorated downstairs sitting room, with the mellow September sunshine flooding the room.

  Betty had, as she said, scoured the pages of Ideal Home looking for exactly the right colours and the result, Wedgewood blue and dove grey picked out with white, was fresh and calm.

  Bill liked it very much. What colours would Miss Langton choose if she had to decorate a room, he wondered. If it was winter, he’d want something cosy. A room where you could stretch out on the sofa with, perhaps, a dog in front of the fire and, in the armchair opposite …

  He put a firm rein on his imagination and lit a cigarette. ‘How did you get on in Wimbledon this afternoon?’

  ‘Very well. I’m glad to say Jenny’s aunt made her very welcome.’

  ‘She was obviously thrilled to bits to see her,’ said Betty. ‘Mrs Shilton was really welcoming. She seems a thoroughly nice woman.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Bill. ‘Miss Langton had such a shock yesterday, that it’s good something positive has come out of it.’

  ‘Mrs Shilton isn’t a fan of the police though,’ put in Jack. ‘She’s convinced her brother was innocent.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’

  ‘Yes, but she says it was Michael Trevelyan who took the forged letter to the police and told them it was phoney.’

  ‘That’s not on the file,’ said Bill in surprise. ‘Was she sure?’

  ‘Yes, certain,’ said Betty. ‘Mrs Shilton thinks that proves her brother’s innocence. I must admit, I thought it did at first, but Jack doesn’t and Jenny herself saw it did nothing of the sort.’

  ‘How come?’ asked Bill. ‘I must say, that’d be my first thought too, Betty.’

  ‘Mrs Shilton,’ said Jack, taking up the story, ‘saw that letter. All she’d have to say is that the writing didn’t look like Caroline’s for Trevelyan to realise his scheme hadn’t worked. The only thing he could do then was to make the best of a bad job by taking it to the police and tell them it was a forgery.’

  ‘It’s pretty sharp of Miss Langton to see that,’ said Bill. ‘I did wonder, after seeing her aunt, if she’d be desperate to prove her father’s innocence, but it sounds as if she can still be fairly objective about it.’

  ‘That experience in the garden really scared her, Bill,’ said Betty. ‘What she wants is the truth. She said as much this afternoon.’

  Bill pulled a face. ‘That’s going to be difficult after all this time, without witnesses to interview. Take that letter, for instance. Inspector Chartfield should have noted on the file that it was Trevelyan who handed it over and told him he thought it was a fake.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Jack. ‘And, of course, at this stage there’s no telling whose version of events is correct. Inspector Chartfield’s, or Mrs Shilton’s.’

  ‘I suppose Mrs Shilton wants you to prove Trevelyan’s innocent,’ said Bill.

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ said Betty. ‘Apparently the scandal sur
rounding the case was horrible. She doesn’t want it all dragged up again.’

  ‘That must’ve been hard for her,’ said Bill. ‘I can see why she’d want it all left well alone. But Miss Langton doesn’t feel like that, you say?’

  Jack nodded. ‘That’s right. However, what I can find out is anyone’s guess. I’ve told Jenny as much. All I can do is ask questions, I suppose. As I said this afternoon, I’m taking Mrs Rotherwell to lunch on Monday.’

  Bill frowned, trying to place the name. ‘She’s the old friend of Caroline Trevelyan’s, isn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right. The woman who went to Ceylon.’

  ‘She won’t be able to tell you anything. She’d left the house hours before Mrs Trevelyan disappeared.’

  Jack swirled the whisky round in his glass. ‘You’re probably right,’ he admitted. ‘When I put those adverts in the paper, I was trying to find out as much about the Trevelyans as I could and to advertise seemed an obvious first step. Now I’ve got the reply, I’m more or less bound to meet the woman, even if she can’t tell us anything much. However, it won’t hurt to have lunch with her.’ He grinned. ‘And I like the Criterion.’

  NINE

  Beneath the gold-roofed splendour of the Criterion, Jack stood up as the waiter showed the middle-aged, severely bespectacled woman to his table. ‘Mrs Rotherwell?’ he said, taking her extended hand and bowing slightly over it. It seemed to be expected of him. ‘It’s very good of you to see me.’

  Mrs Rotherwell looked him up and down imperiously. Jack felt as if he’d passed some sort of test. He knew Mrs Rotherwell had started out as a governess, and she obviously wasn’t the sort who could be described as a soft touch by her pupils. That, combined with a lifetime of Empire-building in Ceylon, had obviously given her the sort of personality you could bend iron bars round. She was, thought Jack, a tough egg.

  The waiter pulled out her chair. ‘Can I take your coat, madam?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the tough egg, shrugging herself out of her grey wool coat. She retained her hat, though, a straw cloche with artificial cherries and grapes. Despite the tiny white chip on one of the cherries where the wax showed through, it put Jack in mind of an upturned fruit bowl.

  After glaring at the chair for any possible defects, she consented to settle herself at the table.

  Jack glanced at the waiter with a friendly smile. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all, m’sieur. Would you like the wine list?’

  Jack looked enquiringly at Mrs Rotherwell who stiffened visibly. ‘Certainly not,’ she said repressively. ‘I have very strong views upon the subject of alcohol. Lime juice, if you please. With ice. It was,’ she added to Jack, ‘a favourite of my dear husband’s in Ceylon.’

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ said Jack to the waiter, mentally shelfing, with some regret, the half-bottle of Chablis he’d been contemplating.

  ‘I will,’ she stated, ‘come straight to the point, Mr Haldean. What is your interest in the Trevelyans?’ Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You assured me in your note that you were not connected with the press in any way. Now that I have met you, I will take your word upon the subject.’

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Jack.

  ‘However, I must say that if I thought you were attempting to rake up an old scandal for a motive I consider to be unworthy, I will decline to speak.’

  Jack cranked up the charm. ‘Of course, Mrs Rotherwell,’ he said with wide-eyed innocence. ‘That is, naturally, taken as read. It’s a longish story but one which I think you’ll find interesting. Can we discuss it over lunch?’ he added, with what he thought of as his engaging smile. The last thing he wanted was for the prickly Mrs Rotherwell to decide to sweep out. She was far less likely to do that if she was tackling a lamb chop or whatever it was the woman wanted to eat.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said non-committedly, but, rather to Jack’s relief, opened the menu. ‘French,’ she muttered disdainfully. ‘Potage crème d’orge au vin. Barley soup with wine. Why do foreigners always have to add alcohol to food? I insist on good plain cooking, Mr Haldean. I detest this foreign fad for disguising decent food – if it is decent, mind you – with sauces so you cannot see what is underneath.’

  She must’ve gone down a breeze with her cook in Ceylon, thought Jack. ‘The fillet of hake is very nice,’ he suggested. ‘And perhaps the duck with green peas to follow?’

  ‘That would be acceptable,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘As long as I can actually see what it is I am eating.’

  Jack sighed inwardly. At this rate he’d have been better off taking her to the local fish and chip shop.

  The waiter arrived with their drinks and took the order for lunch. Under the influence of iced lime juice, Mrs Rotherwell unbent slightly.

  ‘Fresh lime,’ she commented. ‘Most refreshing. So, Mr Haldean, why are you interested in the Trevelyans?’

  ‘I’ve been asked by a member of the family to find out what I can about the sad events surrounding Mrs Trevelyan’s disappearance.’

  ‘The family?’ repeated Mrs Rotherwell in a puzzled voice.

  ‘Yes, and I must say I’m very grateful to you for sparing me your time,’ continued Jack, side-stepping the interruption. ‘I understand you knew Mrs Trevelyan well, Mrs Rotherwell?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I was employed for a time as Caroline’s governess. I am not ashamed to admit it, Mr Haldean. Some of us have had to make our own way in this world. Caroline was Miss Burbridge then, of course. She was a delightful girl, and we were actually much the same age. At least, she was only a few years younger than myself. We always kept in touch after she became too old to need instruction. I am puzzled, though, about this member of the family you mention.’

  Jack nodded politely. ‘Do you remember her daughter, Jennifer?’

  ‘Little Jennifer? Of course. She was a nice, well-behaved child. What’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘She’s the one who asked me to find out what I could.’

  ‘But as I understand it, Jennifer was adopted by Caroline’s sister. To the best of my knowledge, she thought it best to bring the child up in ignorance of who her real mother and father were. Did Caroline’s sister tell her after all?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Jack. ‘It’s an interesting story.’

  As the tale unfolded, she listened with rapt attention. He left out the part about what Jenny had seen from the tree house. Monsters, he thought, were far too difficult to explain.

  ‘So Jennifer Trevelyan – Langton, I should say – actually visited Saunder’s Green without realising her family had lived there?’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Jack. ‘And, naturally, once she had found out from her brother the truth of the matter, she wants to know what happened that day.’

  The fillet of hake arrived. Mrs Rotherwell squeezed a segment of lemon over her fish and started to eat in an abstracted way.

  ‘But surely the girl knows what happened? It’s all very sad, of course, but there can be no doubt that Michael Trevelyan made away with his poor wife – she was an innocent, trusting girl – and sought to conceal his appalling crime. Women, Mr Haldean, are far too ready to trust, to dance at a man’s beck and call.’

  Present company excepted, thought Jack. If any man tried to get Mrs Rotherwell to dance at his beck and call, he’d know he’d been in a fight.

  ‘Did you know Michael Trevelyan well?’ he asked.

  ‘As well as I wanted to,’ she said dryly. ‘I did not care for Mr Trevelyan. He was superficially charming, but he couldn’t fool me. I thought he could be a bully. He was certainly very fond of his own way and could have a savage temper if crossed.’

  Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a different assessment of Mr Trevelyan’s character from others I’ve heard.’

  ‘I have a good knowledge of human nature, Mr Haldean. I suppose you’ve talked to Gwyneth Shilton?’ Jack nodded.

  Mrs Rotherwell sighed testily. ‘I have known Gwyneth for years. She’s a pleasant enough wo
man but completely unreliable on the subject of her brother. I would venture to say that you should ignore anything she says about him.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Mrs Rotherwell,’ said Jack with every appearance of sincerity. Mrs Rotherwell unbent slightly and gave him a frosty smile. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t so far from his own opinion. Mrs Shilton certainly wasn’t an objective witness. The thing was, it didn’t sound as if Mrs Rotherwell was objective either. She obviously hadn’t liked Trevelyan. Ah, well …

  ‘What are your recollections of that day?’ he asked.

  She rammed her spectacles firmly up the bridge of her nose with her forefinger, considering her reply. ‘Really, it’s hard to say at this distance in time,’ she said, eventually, finishing her hake.

  ‘Do you remember, for instance, the builders being in the house?’ he asked hoping to stir her memory.

  ‘Such an inconvenience,’ she said with a sniff. ‘Whole areas of the house were out of bounds and there was a great deal of dust and noise. I remember thinking I would not have tolerated it. Dear Caroline – such a sweet-natured girl – tried to make the best of it. The builders were not there in the afternoons but the morning of my visit was interrupted by constant noise.’

  ‘As I understand it, the family were only living at Saunder’s Green because there were building works being carried out.’

  ‘That is the case, yes, or so I believe. The circumstances were very unusual. You know Michael Trevelyan had insisted on the family moving to New Zealand? Well, the move had been postponed at the last moment. Caroline’s uncle was a builder who owned a considerable amount of property. He let Caroline and her family have the house at very short notice. They had to live round the building work, so to speak.’

  ‘The family got on well with the builders though, didn’t they?’ asked Jack. ‘I believe one of the builders dropped in for morning coffee.’

  He had read Mrs Rotherwell’s statement yesterday. Mrs Rotherwell had recounted how Andrew Laidlaw had needed to consult Caroline Trevelyan about the works and had been invited to join them for coffee, where they had had a lively discussion about how the work was progressing.