Goosey Goosey Gander

by Frank Edwards

“Still could be a Thornley ‘revenge’ shooting? Or Farmer, come to that. Lost his shooting as well.”

  “Farmer? Wrong side of the river.”

  “So he says. But why not? Possibly acting under Thornley’s influence, maybe? He could shoot Tewkes, push the boat off, and cross the river in his own boat. Unlikely, you could say, but not impossible, surely? He’d know the river and its tides as well as anyone.”

  “Sergeant, you’ve given me enough to chew on. I’ll think on’t. Night!”

  Back at Fox Lea there had been a renewal of the tea pot and some verbal fencing. Galina knew that she held more cards than her visitor, but also that, late hubby’s influence to draw on or not, she was up against a sharp operator. She had met the type and seen them at work. She decided to be as open as, at present, it suited her to be.

  “Tell me what Jeremy was talking to you about. You’ve suggested I ask him, but he’s not here and you are.”

  “Could be delicate. Might be something he doesn’t want you to know of. How can I tell? Families are difficult things at times.”

  “Then why come here? Today? If I’m not to be told anything, why come to see me? Hardly to offer your heartfelt condolences, I’m sure.”

  Reed saw that he had to go on to the next phase of his planned approach. He was in, and the Jeremy card was in play.

  “I had thought of going to see Jeremy, but on second thoughts came here first. Decided that if you can answer my question, then it may be less… ” he paused, searching for a word, “… emotional than for him to do so. You see,” and here he improvised somewhat, “I was in discussion with Jeremy about some of the land that Alan had inherited – before he did so, may I say – and Jeremy was in conversation with his brother. Or so I took him to be. Question is this. Who gets it now? The land.”

  “I appreciate your sensitivity.” Was she being sarcastic? “It might be a bit undiplomatic to barge in on Jeremy as things are to ask such a question. He isn’t the sentimental kind exactly, but’ll cry over spilt milk all right. It’s part of his nature.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Over my brother rather than over the milk. I can give you some information. Some indications. I’ll tell you, as a starter, that Jeremy gave me your name and told me what you hoped to get that land for. And what he wanted of it. No more than that. So why, I’m still not clear, go to try and see Alan today?”

  “Because, not knowing he was dead, I hoped to introduce myself. I fear I slightly misled the police, but of no significance. Just good business practice. I intended using a sort of introduction from Jeremy. I would then try and find out direct, or this is what I hoped, from Alan where he stood. If I sensed him to be adamant against any deal then I was going to cut the whole thing and look elsewhere. It was no more than a simple piece of knowledge I needed. I couldn’t afford the time to dance around to Jeremy’s fiddling much longer.”

  Galina looked at her guest with a new interest.

  “Stay for supper. Very simple. Just the two of us. We might find that we have much in common if we can talk the whole project through quietly and sensibly. Brother Jeremy doesn’t understand some of the finer points. I have little doubt that you will once I put them to you.”

  ’Bingo!’ thought Reed, as he warmly accepted. A phone call or two would soon put his diary for the day in order. He was not only in the lady’s chamber, but it could be that of the goose that lays the golden egg.

  Chapter Eleven

  ould have used a ‘steady eddie’. Would widen the field.”

  “You are too bright too early! What is a ‘steady eddie’ when it’s, or he’s, about?”

  “It’s a gun rack. Small enough to carry in your pocket. Steadies the aim. Or so they tell me. Especially for someone lying down.” Hole looked impressed. “Oh, I’m not just a beautiful meteorologist, sir.”

  “Any other startling technological terms to greet me with this fine, sunny day for shooting?”

  “Just that, at last, confirmation that the weapon used was a 12 bore O/U game sports gun. Twelve gauge. As good as an average description that you can get.”

  “And the cartridge? Any signs of the remains?”

  DS Maitland shook his head sorrowfully. “Carefully cleared away, I reckon.”

  “That would have taken a little more time. Cool customer, our murderer.”

  “Wouldn’t expect to be seen by anyone at that hour of the day.”

  “Farmer was around. Why not someone else?”

  The two detectives were seated in Hole’s office with coffee. Contemplating.

  “So, there’s quite a wide field of possible suspects.”

  “Just about any one who can shoot, sir. There’s plenty of them around.”

  Hole risked a grin. “My wife among them.” That startled his sergeant.

  “Mrs Hole?”

  “The same.” The DI did not explain further. “Just shows how wide the field might be.”

  “Not so wide as that, surely sir. Excepting your wife’s expertise, that is. No insult, but whoever it was, was not just a shot but a very good one. According to Thornley.”

  “Who is one of them himself.”

  “And Jeremy Tewkes. And Farmer.”

  “And, and! The list could grow if we accept, as I think we must, that at that range, whatever Thornley says, it really wouldn’t take a crack shot to do the deed. A mite lucky with the first, maybe, but that could happen to anyone. And, as Farmer insists that he heard no shot at all, who’s to say there weren’t more than one? However, get cracking on the gun records. We’ll need to have all locally registered guns checked, to see that they are where they are supposed to be. As well as the owners.”

  “After that?”

  “What does our great police force pay you for? Get on with it. And don’t forget your weatherman duties. I’ll make a few calls myself to help out.”

  When the sergeant had left, Hole began a more organised review of what they knew and whom they knew. At this stage the leads were too faint, too dispersed, to allow any serious list to be drawn up. Why, for heaven’s sake! he couldn’t rule out Reed. Taking it that his European journey was verified, as he fancied it would be, then, in these days of travel, putting such easily traceable means such as private aircraft to one side, Paris was less than three hours away from London by Eurostar with a steady stream of trains all day. In an admittedly wild scenario, he could have got to London, trained again to Gloucester, got down to the river, shot Tewkes, and back to Brussels without being spotted. Passport checks?

  The Inspector stopped himself at this point of conjecture. ‘Come off it! How would the man know which morning Tewkes would be at that spot at that time?’ He didn’t need any climate decryption from Maitland or anyone else to put such a waste of mental effort firmly out of his mind. So! To more serious work. There was a lot of leg work and a parliament of talking to get through, he feared, before the killer was traced. As, surely, traced he would be. There was, in the event, a smaller field with a direct interest in Alan’s death than Maitland’s arguments that morning indicated. Reed, in that sense, held a clue, he was sure. Land. Business. Maybe coloured by anger at the loss of shooting rights or other territorial ambitions, but at its heart, land. And its use. He must set that debate in motion.

  Galina had her own affairs to get into motion. She had no time that morning, unlike some, to sit down and contemplate things. Not that she didn’t want to. Reed’s visit had been altogether fortuitous. She knew that it had suited him as much as it had her, but felt sure that she had not given him too much to go on. To play with. They had ambitions in common. That had become clear. Neither of them was too concerned as to the effects of any outcome on Jeremy’s hopes. That is, taking it he didn’t become the owner of Alan’s land now that he was dead. She had hopes of stymying that, hence her earlier call to her lawyers, to Susan Garland specifically. She had no truck with her brother’s trust in old Macintosh. The prognosis was most satisfactory. By now, Susan will have told her father�
�s old legal retainer enough to put Jeremy’s immediate plans on hold. He, no doubt, had passed it on to Jeremy. Confident that this would be the case, she had said enough to Reed to encourage him that there were more than just chicken farm pickings in the offing. That would keep him in play a little longer. Until things were confirmed. She was in need of a hobby, an interest. Thoughts of worldly partnerships flowed through her head. Professional ones. She had had enough of married life, and for any associated diversions she was able to do better than Reed. Reed had other ideas.

  On that morning, however, one of life’s tediums demanded her attention. The monthly luncheon approached. Each member in a sort of turn, although how exactly that functioned in practice had never been formulated, chaired the monthly luncheon club and then had to arrange the following one’s speaker. The democratic idea was that Chairs could not invite a crony to talk at the meeting over which they presided. What with one thing and another – it was not every day one got caught up in family murders – time was near run out for her to get hold of the next. Her invitation to Alan had been, generously, accepted by the others as the answer to a genuine emergency. Now things must be got back onto an even keel. Daphne, this month’s chair, awaited the name and the introductory notes. Not for the first time, Galina had cause to credit herself with fine judgement in making church attendance a ‘thing’. The vicar would be just the man. He could hardly refuse, even at this short notice. Those flowers had cost a bit! And she had arranged the professional presentation of them, favourably commented on by the Bishop. In her hearing! What else would he be doing at lunch time? Hardly St Martin’s-in-the- fields with its free mid-day concerts! More, the Good Lord be praised, he was a man. In common with the ever-improving new MP. No woman mincing around the altar. No soprano rendering of the lead in the psalms. Still a man in charge, as it is ordained to be. Certainly by her and her companions. Nothing the group liked better than a male speaker. And it wasn’t as if all that many of the members knew much of the vicar. Those with a conscience claimed allegiance to other parishes but, Galina from experience knew, mainly as a smoke screen to mask working Sundays, hosting their hubbies’ bosses and usefuls with gin and a good roast. So. A fresh voice for most, and a further touch of useful investment for her. He would accept? Of course he would.

  The Reverend Robin Henshaw did accept. He could spread the word to some socially active people. He saw the value, the need, of that, and was sure he could do so without compromising his beliefs. Redemption and the Individual he suggested as a title. Galina had to accept it, but feared for the numbers attending. There would have to be a short, sharp recruiting campaign. She couldn’t have the minister facing a scantily seated table. Nor could she face the superior look that Daphne would give as she contemplated empty places. Having hooked the Vicar, Galina set forth to reel in the audience. Much as she wanted to turn the previous evening’s conversation with Gresham Reed over in her mind, she had much left to do on that fine and sunny morn.

  Possibly, no doubt, as a bonus to her unswerving Christianity, she had two immediate acceptances and then, walking back out in the main street of Blakton, she met Inspector Hole. This was a bonus indeed. She had half wondered if a call on his good lady wife was in order, but this was better. Men were much more malleable.

  “Inspector! The very man. I have something to ask you.” If Hole thought that this was a follow-up to his meeting with her the previous day, possibly containing some valuable information or even a clue, he was mistaken.

  “Mrs Hole. She is well, I trust?”

  “Thank you. Yes.”

  “Can you, please, dear Inspector, pass on a request from me? I do so hope that she can give me some backing. Especially as she is a devoted member of our little congregation.”

  Which congregation she was referring to was not at once clear. To Galina, on her mission of whipper-in, they were as one.

  “The Vicar is giving this month’s luncheon club talk. With such an intriguing title.”

  Galina didn’t disclose the title.

  “Now, I know perfectly well that she cannot usually attend our gatherings because of her school work. Can’t even get away for a lunch break it seems. Such dedication must run in the family. Be in keeping with your own. But, as there is no school next week, I do so hope, and would very much like, if she would come along to back up Mr Henshaw. Do ask her. From me. Please. And if you can apply a little pressure? Police style?” she ended, with a charming little female laugh.

  “Any pressure from me, Mrs Foxley, would be far from effective. However, as you ask, I will tell her of the meeting. And of your especial request.”

  “I am so grateful. Thank you. Are you walking in my direction?” Hole hesitated before answering, and then:

  “Not much further. I’m calling in to David Walmsley’s. Just checking, you know. Must leave no stone unturned.” Did she recoil at the news? Hole fancied a tension. Not surprising, he allowed, in view of what had happened and the associations.

  “In that case”, if there had been a moment of recoil it had fast passed or was well hidden, “I’ll leave you go on your way. Don’t forget my message for your wife!” Hole assured her that he would not, and continued his way to the gunsmith’s shop.

  While Maitland went about his researches Hole had, as promised, decided to add to them. In this way he could also get himself into the mood of the occasion, by visiting the few gunsmiths that remained in business. He had begun in Gloucester, and was now on the way to the one in Talbot. He had no real purpose other than to smell the air. Of course, he went through the routine of checking sales and registrations, especially sales of cartridges, and wondered for how much longer such businesses could keep going even in such a sporting area.

  Walmsley greeted him, and answered his opening gambit of ‘How’s business’ with a:

  “Doing well, I’m glad to say. Largely thanks to the internet, Inspector. Got my own little www. Good for business. People are not so keen to be seen coming in and out as they used to.” The news interested Hole.

  “Doesn’t that mean, though, that you’re now up against much wider competition? If the big firms go on-line, then can’t they undercut you? And what of the specialist firms? The Night Vision people and so on. Seems to me that if people can’t or won’t come in here then the market is wide open to them via the net.”

  “Something in that. But we’ve got a good name. Built up a clientele over the years. Big names don’t carry the same clout on the net. The small man can establish a niche market. We are holding steady – and in a way that we wouldn’t if we had to wait for people to come in through the door.”

  “They still come through the door for their cartridges and so on I take it? Faster than waiting for the post, and better able to choose exactly what they want.”

  “I can see why you’ve come in through my door! Nasty, nasty business this Alan Tewkes thing. Very nasty. Oh yes, I still sell all sorts of shot. I keep a record.” Walmsley did not ask Hole if he wanted to see it. He stooped down behind his counter and produced a sales ledger.

  “Look away! If I can help in any thing I’ll be only too pleased.”

  Hole did a dutiful look, and did a check on gun sales as well. He held out no great hopes. The gun that had been used to kill Alan could be many years old and have changed hands, if only by generation, a few times. It didn’t need to have been bought for purpose. Most unlikely, in fact.

  After some more general observations and chat, much as he had used in his earlier visits, Hole set out to return to his headquarters. Being so near home, however, a glance at his watch told him that he might just catch Annie, and thus get the message from Galina Foxley off his chest. He knew that his wife was only too happy to use the school as a, genuine, excuse not to go to the hen gatherings of the rich and the idle. She knew she was ‘allowed’ membership because a healthy school was considered by all to be a good thing for the village. Even so, while he wouldn’t play up the invitation to the Vicar’s gripping address, he d
id half hope she would, on this occasion, elect to go. There was no harm in her, and through her him, hearing as much of the local gossip and speculation on the case as possible. He was sure that little else would dominate the eating-time chat. Maybe the Vicar would use the murder as a start point for his talk! She could also possibly pump one or two of the regular attenders to see how much Alan had gone into detail over his working schedule – and how much had stuck with his audience. No one of them was likely to be the killer, but they were chatterers by nature, and gossips have ears as well as tongues.

  He was lucky. He did find her free. He did pass on the message. He did get the expected face and swallow, but also he did, after a discreet murmuring that it could, might, just possibly, be of some use to him, and thus to finding who killed Alan Tewkes, however fanciful that might seem, got Annie to agree.

  Inspector Hole, happier, both that the task was accomplished and that his better half had accepted her double-agent role, set out for his office and his reunion with his sergeant. Also, it was time, as a text on his mobile reminded him, to bring his Superintendent up to speed. Such speed as there was. He had little movement to report as yet.

  Chapter Twelve

  ’ve been talking. To some of the chaps.”

  “It must have been quite a lot of talking. What time did you get in last night?”

  Both knew that Marcia’s question was entirely rhetorical. She would know every instant of his whereabouts, and the exact second he crept back in and up to his fastness of a bedroom. Jeremy made no attempt to answer that, and Marcia did not, to his relief, make any attempt to pursue the topic. Of course, he knew that she was happy enough that he was talking to the ‘right people’ and in the right sort of Club. No real criticism there, but on this occasion she seemed more wrapped up in what had come in that morning’s mail. Neither of them was an early riser. They were both capable of making their own toast and pouring their own coffee. Marcia still hadn’t got the servant situation sorted out. They would need a little more money before she could properly do that, as she was wont to stress at any opportunity. Meanwhile, and until Jeremy settled this land business and sold it for a good profit, then, so long as he didn’t get caught on any drink-drive offence, she was happy enough that he carried on meeting proper neighbours. Even so, this letter!