‘What’s the sign which doesn’t point that way?’ Molly asked, getting up to help.
‘The fisherman said that two women came over the footbridge. But Mrs Orton only mentioned Mrs Pollock. There’s a faint possibility that some disgruntled ex-mistress killed him, although his wife is pretty positive that infidelity wasn’t among his more regular failings. Or would you say that she was as capable of closing her mind to adultery as she is to his other defects?’
They had reached the kitchen. Molly dumped dishes into hot water. ‘If you have faith in one thing,’ she said, ‘you can have faith in another.’
Keith thought about it. Molly’s meaning began to poke through. ‘You mean,’ he said, ‘that if you can believe in a personal God you can believe anything?’
‘Yes. No,’ Molly said indignantly. ‘Don’t put words into my mouth. But, Keith, what about that lady from the union?’
‘I’m curious about her myself.’ Keith began to dry, passing dishes to Deborah to put away. ‘When they were talking at Mrs Hendrickson’s yesterday, there were a lot of things being said which weren’t said aloud, and it was as if I didn’t know the language.’ Deborah left the kitchen with a tray of cutlery and Keith took advantage of her absence. ‘Mrs Hendrickson seemed to be saying, woman-to-woman, that whatever differences she and Sam might have had between them they were terrific in bed.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ Molly said. ‘She hinted as much to me. And she isn’t the sort of person to say that sort of thing if it wasn’t true.’
Deborah returned. They dropped the subject quickly. ‘And Mrs Griegson seemed to be saying, to Sam’s former henchmen, that she was ready to take her place in a fresh carve-up,’ Keith said. ‘If Sam’s continued existence was standing in her way, she could have had a motive. She could have walked up to see him, perhaps to demand that he put in his formal resignation. He refused and she dunted him on the head, expunged any record of their discussion from the word-processor and replaced it with the suicide message and then finished the job the way Munro suggested.’
‘Where would she get a cartridge?’ Deborah asked.
‘Spotted it in the open drawer, perhaps. But after that she’d only have had a matter of seconds in which to do a vanishing act, perhaps a minute at the most, during part of which Mrs Hendrickson was approaching to see what the noise had been.’
Deborah paused in the act of drying pans. ‘Plenty of time,’ she said, ‘for somebody to get round the back of the summerhouse and to sit down under the picture window. Do we know that anybody looked there?’
‘No. It’d be a hell of a risk, though,’ Keith said.
‘Well, what about diving through the hedge into the Strathlings’ shrubbery?’
‘It’s a beech hedge reinforced with chicken-wire,’ Keith said. ‘You’d have to be ectoplasm to get through it without leaving tracks. But there’s a gap where Ben Strathling used to go through when he visited Sam Hendrickson.’ Keith became motionless, still holding a plate and towel.
‘Hoy!’ Molly said. ‘You can talk and dry at the same time.’
Keith wound himself up again. ‘There’d be a strong risk of being seen. But let’s suppose that a killing had been done on the spur of the moment, in unthinking temper. What Deb’s suggesting might be the least dangerous of the various risks available. You can take that one on tomorrow, Toots.’
‘Me?’ Deborah said.
‘You thought of it, you look into it. Speak to the fisherman, if he’s there, and to Mrs Orton. We want to know who the other woman was and roughly when she came over the footbridge. The ground in the Strathlings’ shrubbery looked rock-hard and no doubt Detective Inspector Gowrie’s been through there, but you can take a look. I’ll want to see Granny Orton anyway, so I’ll find out what she saw.’
Molly took the dish-towel out of his hands and dropped it into the washing-machine. ‘That’s the lot,’ she said. ‘And nothing broken for once. Bless you my children.’
*
They settled down in the study in front of the microcomputer. Keith keyed in the word-processor program.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Read me the notes of what Mrs Hendrickson told us.’
‘All right. But we don’t have any times to put against things,’ Deborah said.
‘No. Folk don’t walk around looking at their watches and memorising times. But we should have a sequence. I’ll be satisfied if we get a framework to hang any new snippets on.’
They settled down to work, from Deborah’s notes and their memories. When they had finished Mrs Hendrickson’s account Keith said, ‘Now we’ll thread in what we think was meant by what we found in the computer, where we think it makes sense.’
‘Won’t we be guessing?’
‘The great thing is to make a guess. If it turns out to be wrong, we’ve learned something.’ A few minutes later, he said, ‘Now we’ll put in what I was told by Kenny Stuart and by Mr Albany.’
The list now read:
Mrs H takes Mr H to summerhouse.
On computer – cold, shut door, can’t reach radio.
Mrs H back to house, takes phone-call from sister Louise. Noted on computer.
Phone-call from Hughie R.
On computer – bad news, jc talking to the plod (police).
Mr & Mrs Albany visit. Coffee in summerhouse.
On computer – ok thanks, no, ho —
Mrs H to house again, Mrs A leaves.
Mr A cleans guns.
On computer – just put one out. kkhswwf ok just tired. linseed stocks, snap-caps and triggers, fancy a beer?
Physiotherapist phones.
Mr A leaves.
Mr Strathling visits Mr Albany at No. 4. Milkman (Rogers) arrives at A’s door for money. Mr S returns home, going round the side of the house.
Old Mrs Orton waves to Kenny Stuart.
Milkman arrives at Mrs H.
Sound of shot.
Mrs H finds husband. Computer was on menu. Switches off monitor but suicide note remains in computer.
Strathling and Hughes arrive, followed by Albany.
Molly had been writing a letter on her knee. Keith had wondered whether she had pretended an interest in order to get help with the washing-up, but she looked up suddenly and peered at the screen. ‘It asks as many questions as it answers,’ she said. ‘But I suppose that’s half the objective. “Ho —” could be the start of “how are you?”
‘Or “How can you do this to me?”,’ Keith said.
‘What about Mr Strathling hearing a man’s voice?’
‘He was too damn vague to be any use,’ Keith said. ‘If he heard it at all and wasn’t just trying to divert my attention away from himself. He thought it might have been the radio, or possibly Mr Kechnie’s voice, and he said he couldn’t remember whether he heard it on his way round to the Albanys’ or on the way back, which makes about a half-hour’s difference.’
‘We could find out whether there was a talk on and at what time,’ Deborah said.
‘It could have been somebody introducing a piece of music,’ Keith said. ‘We’ll take a look tomorrow and see what wavelength the radio’s set to. I’d rather know exactly when, in this time-scale, people started and stopped what they said they were doing. It doesn’t take all morning to mow a lawn or wash a car.’
‘It does if you have to trim the edges or polish the bodywork,’ said Deborah, who was pressed into service rather oftener than she felt was fair.
‘And I want to know how the movements of the milkman and the window-cleaner fit in.’
Silence fell. All three stared at the list on the screen, willing it to yield some meaningful message.
‘Assume that we’re right,’ Molly said suddenly. ‘Assume that nobody came in from outside. Also assume that it was one of the residents. Who would it be?’
‘That’s really tomorrow’s question,’ Keith said. ‘But you went round most of them, between you. What do you think so far? And give us a brief description of each household as yo
u go along. It’s time I saw them as individuals instead of animated chess-pieces.’
Deborah took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll start. But that’s a lot of assumes. What do we assume about people covering up for each other?’
Keith thought about it. He imagined a similar crisis within his own immediate circle. Such had not been unknown. ‘For starters, assume that people will cover up for their own family,’ he said. ‘Not for anybody else. But tell us if any two families seem to be exceptionally pally.’
‘Seems reasonable. Would you and Mum cover up for me if I killed somebody?’
‘That would depend on whether you’d tidied your bedroom,’ Molly said. ‘Get on with it.’
‘Really,’ Deborah said. ‘You are the end! We’ll work outwards from the Hendricksons. You both know Mrs H. I’d like her very much if she wasn’t quite so top-heavy with virtue. She and Mr Rogers give each other perfect alibis. Unless, of course, they were having an affair and one of them killed Mr Hendrickson so that they’d be free to run away together.’ She glanced at her parents to see whether she had managed to shock them.
Molly considered it seriously. ‘I think he’s too old to be having an affair with anybody,’ she said.
‘How old —?’
‘We’ll tell you if it ever happens,’ Keith said. ‘Molly, would you say that your old friend had a passionate nature? You didn’t react when Deb suggested an affair.’
‘I was wondering. She used to be very much a romantic,’ Molly said, ‘and her sex-life seems to have been Grade A. I think she’s too conventional to . . . to . . .’
‘Throw her knickers over the windmill?’ Deborah suggested.
‘Deborah!’ Molly said. ‘Where do you get these expressions?’
‘I heard Dad say it once. I thought it was very . . .’
‘Rude?’
‘Expressive,’ Deborah said. ‘That’s the word I wanted.’
‘Clype,’ Keith said.
With a single glance, Molly made it clear that he was in disgrace. ‘I don’t think that she’d have a physical affair,’ she said. ‘Jenny takes the Bible literally. But she might have a romance. I can see her getting a kick out of nobly renouncing her love for the sake of her crippled husband.’
‘Maybe allowing some neighbour to believe that if she wasn’t lumbered with Sam she might go off with him?’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Molly agreed doubtfully.
‘Did she seem to have a fancy for anybody in particular?’ Keith asked.
‘Not that she told me,’ Molly said. ‘I got the impression that she only put up with Ben Strathling for Sam’s sake. But when she mentioned Mr Albany, her voice seemed to soften.’
‘And he seemed very concerned about her,’ Keith said. ‘But could anybody fancy that hairy ape?’
‘He could be very attractive,’ Molly said.
‘Oh Mum! He must be a hundred years old!’
Keith decided not to point out that Ian Albany was about his own age. ‘I suppose his wife must once have fancied him or he wouldn’t have one. Do they still get along?’
‘They bicker,’ Deborah said.
‘Much?’
‘About the same as you and Mum.’
‘A case for the divorce lawyers,’ Molly said, hiding a smile.
‘All right, we’ve got the picture,’ Keith said. ‘Go on.’
‘Mike and Beth Hendrickson were away in Edinburgh, so parricide is out,’ Deborah said. Keith glanced at her but she refused to look up. ‘A pity. I wouldn’t have put it past her. Spoiled and mixed-up,’ she explained.
‘Next door are the Strathlings. No family. She’s an over-dressed snob, for all that she works in the bank, and he’s a cold fish.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Keith asked quickly.
‘I don’t know. I just get that feeling. And, Dad, that’s one of the houses which didn’t smell like money. It didn’t look like money either, from inside. I mean, there weren’t a lot of expensive, personal things around. She was away shopping but, obviously, he could easily have slipped through the hedge.
‘Next to them, the Beechers. They’re a pair of fusspots, not a weed in the garden nor a speck of dust in the house, but I rather like them. He runs the printing works.’
‘Does he own it, or is he a paid manager?’ Keith asked. Molly and Deborah looked blank. ‘Sam Hendrickson had stirred up trouble there. Beecher’s attitude might depend on whether it was his own money that was going down the drain. Never mind.’
‘He probably owns it,’ Deborah said, ‘because their house smells expensive, of cigars and lavender and saddle-soap. They’ve two sons —’
‘Is that why you like them?’ Molly asked.
Deborah lifted her nose. ‘Please don’t be silly, Mum. I like them because they’re kind and they treat me as an adult. I was going to say that Garry’s away at university. Steven says that he was helping his mother in the garden all morning up to about the time of the shot and that one or the other of them may have gone indoors but never both at the same time. Mr Beecher was away at his fishing. His mum says that Steven had just driven off in that little car of his, but she herself – Mrs Beecher, I mean – was still in the back garden when she heard the bang. So Mrs Beecher could have slipped through the Strathlings’ garden, choosing the right moment while there was a race on the box. They all seemed to know that he watched the racing.’
‘That’s all very well,’ Keith said, ‘but people can look round from the telly. What makes more sense is that she would have waited until Strathling went over to the Albanys’ house. But why would she have waited so long after he went there?’
‘I don’t know,’ Deborah said, ‘and I honestly don’t care very much. Because I don’t think I can see Mrs Beecher doing any such thing. She’s very mild and gentle and she jumps at loud noises.’
‘Obviously,’ Molly said, ‘she waited for her son – Steven? – to drive away.’
‘I don’t think anybody could have slipped through the Beechers’ garden from the McLaings’, who were on holiday in Italy or somewhere at the time,’ Deborah said. ‘The Beechers’ garden’s a bit more open than most.
‘That’s that side of the road.
‘On the other side, the Albanys are next to the Hendricksons. That’s another house which smells well-off. Mr Albany’s built like a gorilla but he’s a good sort if he wouldn’t be so patronising.’
‘And a hundred years old,’ Keith said.
‘And that Mrs Albany’s the bossy type, which is what usually sets them bickering, and they have a daughter, Aimee, who I can’t thole at any price. She thinks she’s just beautiful,’ Deborah said loftily.
‘Any of the Albanys could have slipped through the Hendricksons’ garden,’ Keith said, again choosing the right moment, but whether they’d have had time to slip back again I rather doubt. I suppose Ian Albany could have hidden round the back of the summerhouse until Mrs Hendrickson and the milkman were inside and then appeared at the door, but he’d have been taking a hell of a risk that somebody else would have come into the garden at that moment.’
‘The Albanys have a yappy dog,’ Molly said. ‘It’s always loose in the garden when the weather’s dry. They weren’t looking out but they say it always barks at strangers —’
‘Including the Ortons?’ Keith asked.
‘Especially them. The Ortons keep cats and chase the dog out of their garden if it gets in. So nobody could have slipped through there from the Ortons or the footpath, but anyway,’ Molly said, ‘I think that one of the Ortons need only have walked across the street if Grandma Orton was prepared to keep her mouth shut. Their gate’s only a few yards from the Hendricksons’, and I don’t think that Mr Kechnie could see that far along from his front lawn, there’s a clump of holly in the way.’
‘They’d have to choose their moment, even more than any of the others, what with the window-cleaner and the milkman,’ Keith said.
Molly shrugged. ‘So they coul
d have chosen the right moment, while the window-cleaner was at the back of a house. But, again, getting back could have been a problem. They might have had to stay hidden for hours. Jenny didn’t go up the garden straight away, but nobody knew that she wouldn’t. Perhaps we should go round everybody again and find out who wasn’t seen around for the next few hours.’
‘If we must,’ Keith said.
‘The Ortons have one daughter,’ Deborah said. ‘Pat, who’s supposed to be very clever. I get on well enough with them usually, though Pat tries to make me look stupid sometimes. She doesn’t try it too often because there are things I can make her look stupid about. Mr Orton’s the brainy type, spends his time marketing very high-tech computer programs but he doesn’t put on any side about it. Mrs Orton’s very neat, but he always looks as if he’d been thrown into his clothes by a giant who couldn’t aim very straight.’
‘Pat and Mrs Orton were both in their back garden most of the morning,’ Molly said, ‘which would have prevented the Pollocks or the Kechnies from going that way without being seen, and old Mrs Orton was looking out over the front.’ She stopped and cleared her throat. ‘Shall I leave the last two families out just now, if they seem to be in the clear?’
‘Better finish the list,’ Keith said. ‘One of you told me that Mrs Orton said that Mrs Pollock came over the bridge and went straight home. Would Mrs Orton tell lies to get Mrs Pollock off the hook?’
‘No way!’ Deborah said. ‘They’re friends on the surface but there’s a sort of buried cattiness. If one of them could drop the other right in it, she would.’
‘That’s the best sort of witness to have,’ Keith said.
‘The Pollocks come next,’ Deborah said. ‘Mr Pollock’s fat and pompous and thinks he ought to have been God only the job had already been taken. He was indoors for the later part of the morning, according to his family. Nobody mentioned seeing him anywhere else.’
‘His wife’s a poor sort of creature,’ Molly said. ‘Always ailing with something. I don’t know how she managed to produce two great bouncing daughters. But the girls are at boarding school,’ she added. ‘And that just leaves the Kechnies. You’ve met him.’
The Worried Widow Page 17