“Does she shoot? Mrs Tewkes?”
“Not that I know of. But there are guns about. From what Maitland has found out, and from a few questions of my own, there are seventeen murder-type guns licensed in the Blakton area. Of course, the killer could come from further afield. There are a great many more in this County alone, with no need for train services to the Continent.”
“Seventeen you say?”
“Yes, and six of them, no less, originally registered to old Mortlemann. The original Tewkes. One of those now registered to Jeremy. Five unchanged. They will be followed up. Could be that the new owners have forgotten to re-register following his death. Not too long ago, after all, but no excuse legally. Still, if we find them all in good order, a slap on the wrist should be sufficient to put that one right.”
“Good. That’ll give you an excuse, if you need one, for a second crack at Jeremy Tewkes. You seem to have been gentle with him so far. I fancy you can get more from him, and from his inhospitable wife.”
“Certainly. But although I say seventeen in the area I would bet there are eighteen. I would add Den Bracegirt, our friendly local poacher. I was surprised to see him at Alan’s funeral. Not inside the church. He’s hardly a praying man, with an ‘a’” (Davis saw the pun), “nor a likely closet Christian. So why go to the funeral? I’ve not rushed him. He’s not too enamoured of the law and would easily be scared into silence. I want to see him. Whether he has that exact calibre of rifle or not, he may well have been along the estuary on the morning of the shooting and heard or, better still, seen something. Or someone he’d recognise. I have my hopes. As I say, I don’t think it right to rush him. Easy enough, living where I do, to bump into him, accidentally on purpose.” Davis gave this last a thought.
“Might have the right sort of gun, you say?”
“I would expect so. Certainly one much like. Unregistered.”
“What if he has and, as you say, was there at the time. Couldn’t he have shot Alan accidentally? Not on purpose?” Hole hadn’t thought of that one. He, in turn, considered his reply.
“Ah! Now there’s an idea. Just could be, I suppose.”
“Just could? Why not ‘very likely’ or ‘eminently possible’? Not blinkered in our reading of the case already, are we?”
“I trust not, sir. An accident could explain things. No. It’s not that I would dismiss the possibility, now that you’ve raised it, that is.”
“I would hope not!” said with a smile.
“But it’s what DeLacey Thornley said, and what the inquest report backs up. It must have been pretty deliberate. It isn’t like two people blundering about in the same wood each with cocked and loaded guns in their hands. This was a careful killing. It took positioning and skill. Local knowledge too, I grant you. Quite likely that Alan saw his killer. Knew him even. Had no need to be alarmed. Farmer, surely, would have noticed some reaction if that had been the case. I can see Den being there, but I don’t go for an accidental discharge. At that hour he was probably doing no more than emptying his traps before others were afoot.”
“Whatever, he would not want to draw attention to himself by firing a gun – more than once as might have been necessary!”
“Very well. Not an accident then, in your view. Taking it the poacher could well have been there, and regularly grazed that area, wouldn’t he be as upset over the change of ownership as any of the others? He, in a sense, had most to lose, if poaching is indeed his main way of livelihood. So, seeing his opportunity, he seized it. Not accidental. Still Den.”
Hole accepted the analysis without, privately, giving it much credence. Yes, the boss had a point. Den would have to be added to his list of possible killers. It was as well that he had decided to see the renegade as soon as the other more formal interviews were complete, and after he had got round to looking over the gatehouse. But in a way similar to Jeremy’s dismissal of his wife’s wild and ungrounded accusation, Hole couldn’t see Den as a killer of people. There were many more the poacher had reason to dislike than Alan Tewkes and, for his way of life, the change of ownership would affect him very little. If at all.
The two policemen went over the running order for a little longer. Brother and sister, even sister-in-law did, at first, seem unlikely killers. Yet, as Davis repeated, Wills made for heated emotions. And, from what he had gathered himself, wasn’t it possible that Alan had played his different lifestyle somewhat in a ‘holier-than-thou’ manner? He may not have lorded his unexpected legacy over his siblings, but then again he did little to hide the fact that he was delighted to be able to run things on the land in a way that went against their wishes. Enough to arouse real hatred? It wouldn’t be the first family to so explode. As for Thornley and Farmer well, yes, they could have been in cahoots, Thornley keeping his hands clean by relying on the remaining feudal links to ensure silent co-operation from Farmer. Did he own Farmer’s land? His house? To be checked. If, though, it was thought to be a question of a contract killing, then Reed would be the first in such a frame. Moved in the big wide world where such skills were available on the market, and with plenty of money to set it all up. But local knowledge? Hole came back to that again and again. How could Reed’s money buy that? From Galina?
At this point the men decided to end what was becoming a circular conversation, and Hole set off to collect Maitland and head back to Wickton.
Their greeting at Wickton, unannounced this time, was decidedly more frosty than the first. Hole was unfazed. He could be firm and unwaveringly persistent if he needed to. This was a murder enquiry. What was more, it was of his brother, her brother-in-law, the one who lived on their doorstep in the gatehouse. Nothing was of greater importance than the clearing up of how Alan Tewkes had died. To get things under way, Hole went over their previous stories under the standard guise of ‘you may have recalled something since we last spoke.’ He got nothing new. They were almost mononsyllabic. They had seen nothing; heard nothing; knew naught of the early morning procedures of the late lamented ‘as he paddled about in his coracle’ as Jeremy put it. This was much as the Inspector had expected. It wasn’t his main line of approach for that day. As the conversation spluttered along, sitting in the same room as before with the fine views, Hole let slip, as if unintentionally, a thought that, of course, it might have been an accident. He was interested in Jeremy’s immediate reply.
“Why then doesn’t the one who did it say so? An accident can happen. Can’t it?” he tailed off. “Suppose he would be too scared. Assuming, that is, that he knew it had happened. May have tried for a bird and failed.”
Marcia seemed to sniff. She did not like this intrusion, less so when Hole next came on to the matter of the registration of the guns. This he also handled softly, allowing his host leeway as to why the guns supposedly in that house were still registered in his father’s name.
“Silly of me, really. Not as criminal as it sounds, Inspector. There were six, as you say.” Hole picked up on the ‘were’. He saw that Maitland had done likewise.
“There were six. My late father taught us all to shoot. So as to be able to take a proper place, play a proper part, in the local scene.” Marcia decidedly sniffed.
“He had three including a pair of Bettinsolis,” Hole knew that from his notes, “and one each for the three of us.”
“Not me!” unexpectedly interrupted Marcia.
“Of course not, dear. I said the family. Father taught us to shoot. Before your time. The Inspector understands that.”
There was a danger of the subject drifting out of focus. Maitland brought it back to script.
“And where are they now, sir? The six guns.”
“Quite simple, really. That’s why I was lax, and I do apologise but I’ll put it all right without delay, believe me. You see, I changed father’s pair for a new pair. DeLacey Thornley advised me,” Jeremy thought that sounded good; he hadn’t, but Hole wasn’t to know, “and traded them in. Change of ownership properly recorded with the gunsmiths. What I f
orgot to do, in my excitement and my pleasure – you must forgive me, Inspector, I must sound like an excited schoolboy at Christmas, but they are rather fine – was to register the new purchases locally. Not much more than a week ago. Honest!”
“And the other four?” It was Hole being insistent on keeping to the subject.
“One of father’s I have kept. The Macnab Claymore he so loved. Sentimental reasons really. Don’t use it. You can see for yourself. Doubt if I’ve ammunition for it now in any case. The others were those he bought for Galina, Alan and me. Alan’s, I suppose, is still in the gatehouse. Not that he would use it. Held on to it to keep it out of ‘evil’ hands, as he put it.”
“Evil! Indeed!” This from a seething Marcia. “Pompous little man! Your brother or not.”
Hole noted that Davis’ diagnosis of the dead man’s attitude may be near the truth. He talked on to give the appearance of not noticing.
“We’ll look for it. We shall be calling in there after here. I would hope then to return the keys to you. You will be wanting to clear things out, I expect. Sad business. Clearing out after a death. Had to do it for my parents. Most unhappy experience. I didn’t realise how much, I have to say it, junk they had. When you visit from time to time you don’t take it all in. Don’t go in all the rooms. Don’t see the choked cupboards and stuffed drawers. Not to mention the attic and the garden shed! I don’t envy you. If we take anything, the gun in all probability for one, we shall give you full receipt of course. What of the sixth gun? Mrs Foxley’s?”
Jeremy hesitated. Marcia had no such scruples.
“Oh, she has it. I’ve seen it in her house. It’s there all right. Don’t let her tell you otherwise. You look it out, Inspector.” Jeremy jumped in. He didn’t want a repeat of the breakfast scene in the presence of the police.
“She doesn’t shoot any more, I can assure you. She enjoyed it more than Alan, I think, but hasn’t done any since her marriage. Not that I know of. That’s why it hasn’t been re-registered I expect. Wouldn’t have crossed her mind. Just went down to Fox Lea with everything else.”
“Plenty of room to practise her shooting in those grounds of hers”, was Marcia’s response. “How would you know if she has or hasn’t polished her skills since she moved out?”
Hole was interested in the tone of the marital exchanges. Jeremy desperately wanted to change the course of his wife’s interventions.
“I’ll ensure that my three, the new pair and father’s old one, are properly registered. Today if I can. My original one is, I know.”
“Non-registration is considered a serious oversight, sir, especially in the present climate. But, for the moment. Right. Get it done. With no more delay, mind. We’ll look after your brother’s. Assuming that it is there in the gatehouse.”
“If it’s not, I have no idea where it might be.”
“That’s what concerns us, sir,” was Maitland’s point.
There was further pause. Marcia made no more sounds. Hole wanted to probe what he felt was an opening. She had little love for her sister-in-law, that was apparent. He tried a chatty approach.
“Once we are clear, I take it that you will be emptying out your brother Alan’s things. As I say, a melancholy task. Then what? Sell it, maybe?” It was bit of a push. He could have had his head bitten off by the lady of the house for treading where he had no right to go, but Jeremy, anxious to avoid any more speculation from Marcia, burst out:
“Problem is, we are not sure who owns it. Now. After this morning.” That did bring an outburst.
No business of the Inspector’s at all, Jeremy. I am surprised at you!”
Jeremy took her by surprise with the firmness of his reply.
“I think it is, dear. Don’t you recall what we said earlier today? You see, Inspector, there has been some doubt raised over the future ownership of what was Alan’s”, and he proceeded to tell Hole of the letter received from Macintosh that day. There could be no secret, as he pleaded to Marcia after the two policemen had gone. It’s in the public domain, and I would rather them hear of it from us than think we were withholding information. In any event, it adds weight to what you said about Galina’s gun.”
Chapter Fourteen
he gatehouse was a substantially built but somewhat impractical building now that the days of open fires and windy windows had It had not been modernised in any way, either by the old Duke or the Mortlemann family. It had done its job well, providing a prestigious looking marker to the drive up to Wickton. Leaving their car at the house, Hole and Maitland walked along the track that led to it, for a track it was. Once upon a time, exactly when last used no one living could recall, this had indeed been the drive. So far as right of way went, it could still be so described. Certainly it was in the mind of Marcia. She had plans. She was determined, as soon as it could be done, to close off the tarmac stretch that led direct from the front door of Wickton to the side road. Close it off, and re-seal the hedgerow through which its link with that road had been cut. The historical drive, still much in the track state that carts and coaches had used, was to be restored. A longer way round for the postman and any other delivery persons, but a more splendid approach for invited visitors. In Marcia’s head lay a vague picture of the gatehouse, restored to its proper function, being lived in by be-wigged flunkies who would jump on the running boards of visitors’ cars and guide them up to the main house where the butler would be ready to open the main door to them. Something of that order. It had not been costed. What effect any sale to Reed – from where the money to finance any such plans would have to come – would have on the course of the original driveway she had no idea. The small matter of modern cars not having running boards was also ignored. It was the style that mattered. To achieve that, she would take any action that she could. Someone had to get a grip on things. Jeremy was keen enough to want the fruit, the deserved fruit, of profit, but had to be kept up to the task of securing it.
Hole and Maitland made their way towards where Alan Tewkes had chosen to live, wondering what they might be able to lay their hands on.
“Now, wouldn’t it be quite a thing if either the gun wasn’t there, has gone missing, or, better still, it is there and turns out to be the murder weapon!” Hole had no truck with any accident theory.
“Like a real whodunnit you mean, sir.”
“Something like that. But I don’t suppose such a dramatic development is on these cards.”
It wasn’t. Not so far as the gun went. It was there. In a locked cupboard, as the uniformed officer on guard duty was able to tell them
“Bert Carter, he thought of that, sir. Went in to check after Farmer had told him of the shooting. Didn’t touch anything. Just had a first look round. Before we had any other instructions. ‘Not as though it’s a scene of crime exactly’, he said, sir.”
Hole made no comment, and led Maitland into the house. Darkish, as the few windows were small, but it didn’t smell damp. What did strike them was the sparsity of furniture and fittings, as a sales brochure might describe them.
“Doesn’t look as though the clearing out job is going to be all that much of a chore after all. Something of a minimalist our Alan Tewkes.”
The gun was as reported, properly housed and, on inspection, cleaned inside and dusty outside. As Jeremy had said, his brother had a deep hatred of shooting. Hole was surprised that he kept the gun at all. If he wanted funds for his birds then why not sell it? Probably still worth a couple of hundred. That could be checked. No surprise it was still registered to old Mortlemann, but again no more than a small, possibly utterly unimportant, detail. Jeremy had his gun, the one his father gave him, registered in his name. Alan’s was not; nor was the one given to Galina. Probably did no more than show that whereas Jeremy had kept up the sport, his two siblings, for different reasons, had let it lapse and had neither used nor thought about their rifle inheritances.
The bedroom was as basic as the rest of the house, relieved only by some original paintings of
birds. Hole wondered if they were Alan’s own work, but he saw no sign of painting paraphernalia. One striking work was of a Whooper swan calling, seemingly without success, to its mate sitting serenely on a bank. Probably a local setting. Otherwise stark. Had he sold off contents to raise money? Then why not the gun? The gun would have to be checked, of course, but Hole was sure tests would show it to be long unused. One thing was in abundance; books. Books on birds. A wide range of specialist stuff, on the floor mainly, as well as filling the old-fashioned deep window ledges. Any bookshelves, like most else of the original belongings, the policemen surmised, had gone the way of the unwanted furniture. For funds. Some more general reference volumes caught Hole’s eye. One or two he recognised. One, a Ladybird guide, he had on his own shelves. There were two encyclopaedias of birds, one by two Czechs, in translation, and others by names he knew: Tunnicliffe, Beazley, Bruce Campbell, Soper, Barnes. His wife wasn’t a schoolteacher for nothing! Books sent on spec, in the hopes of a sale, were not unknown. They tended to stick at home if considered not suitable for a junior school library. In the main, the rest here consisted of writings on specialist subjects and individual types of bird. Also works by Peter Scott, no surprise there, and others on the care and welfare of wildfowl. A cough from Maitland brought the Inspector back from his reverie along the spines, reading the titles and daydreaming of how he might have found a new career in the world they described.
Whooper Swans (Taking by storm, WWT Llanelli)
“Quite right. We must get on. Anything particular strike you?”
Goosey Goosey Gander Page 12