Goosey Goosey Gander

by Frank Edwards

  “No. I’m sorry, Gerald. But no. I, we, have been thinking and talking it all over. I only popped out for a last minute frond or two. Galina had just brought in some lovely bushy stuff – look! see here! – but it wanted something to soften the impression. I didn’t see Mr Enderby leave alone anyone else and, because of where we are, didn’t hear or see anything of what happened. I was surprised to see you when I surfaced. It’s quite subterranean down here,” and she attempted a smile.

  Galina spoke up without any prompt.

  “Same with me, really. I had only just got going when Annie kindly came in to help. I had cut a few small branches, and had them on the table. Like her, I only went as far as I had to, and certainly not through all that long grass and uneven ground that lies in the old part. I only just went around the back of the main building. You can’t see much from there.”

  ’Nor be seen,’ was Hole’s thought, not with either of the ladies particularly in mind but beginning to plot an approach route the killer may have taken. He put it to them.

  “That might have been the way the killer came in. From the main road, where he could park a car, round the back of the church, generally out of sight of any passer-by, as you say, and then over the edge of the railway embankment. That done, he could make his way unseen along the railway side of the bank as far as where his victim was working. The same route would serve well for the escape.”

  “A passing train would have seen him?” Annie was on the ball.

  “Or children. They often play along there. Thornley and Enderby were making much of that danger at a recent meeting in the church.” This from Galina.

  “We shall be looking into both possibilities. But, again, did either of you even sense any movement or any other person when you went out to cut from the bushes?”

  Both repeated their failure to do so and, despite all that he could try in the way of leading-out questioning, he got no further. They, more or less, gave each other a hundred per cent alibi for the period before the shooting. More or less. It was undeniable that both had been up above, alone, for a time. But what time? Hole failed there, too, to get anything exact. Both were active outside, he realised, in turn at about the right time. Accepting his wife’s story, he had to take it that they had been too engrossed in their artistic floral work to have any idea of what the actual time was. They had some idea of how it was passing as they wanted to be clear before the Matins service, but even that had escaped them and trapped them below. Inside.

  Hole went back to the grave where a fingertip search of the ground all round and of the far, blind side of the embankment was taking place. He spoke to the sergeant in charge. With no sexist intent in mind, he was pleased that it was a female officer. They were often better at noting tiny details than men, who tended to dash at things.

  “Keep a look-out for signs of any tree or bush or anything green that has had a branch or some such cut off recently. The scar should be clear if it was done this morning.”

  “What sort of range, sir?”

  Hole pondered the likely distance from which the shot would have been made. He was increasingly sure in his own mind that it would turn out to be the same gun that had been used to kill Alan Tewkes. And by the same accurate marksman. Once more, from all that he had seen and been told, there was but one shot. An extremely effective solo shot.

  “I’d say no more than a hundred yards in any direction. Unless something dramatic shows up a little further out. Oh, and look especially for signs of movement along the bank from here back to the church. Looking the other way, there is little room for approach without crossing the main line, and we’re not going to find a handy footprint of any use to us there.”

  Hole hoped to hear from Maitland very soon. He wanted him for the next set of questioning.

  Eider (Purposeful, WWT Llanelli)

  Chapter Nineteen

  snatched lunch at home was a dispiriting affair. It did no more than pass the time until Maitland, hopefully more refreshed as well as with something useful, could rejoin him. Annie didn’t probe, but felt more involved with this case than with any other of her husband’s. It was so local. So personal.

  Maitland drove up to the house and, with relief, Hole went out and got into the car.

  “First, before we set off, give me anything you’ve got. Then Ma Olive. I want to start there. I may have to break the news to her.”

  Maitland had been successful. He had details of a goods train, a long one, that would have been passing at the time. Without doubt, the one that Enderby had reported. Tracing that train and its driver, and getting a first statement from him or anyone else on the train, was in the hands of the transport police.

  “Things are on the move there.” Maitland rather liked that description. “They’ve alerted every station on the way, but particular attention will be given when it terminates at Wolverhampton. Trains die like the rest of us these days.”

  Hole was not in the mood for pleasantries.

  “Anything on the gun yet?”

  “Oh yes. No mystery there. Again, a bit of a break. Same chap involved and on duty who did the Alan Tewkes one. Same type of cartridge. Same calibre of weapon. Can’t yet say if it’s the same gun. Too soon for that. But at a first guess… .” and he left the obvious comment hang.

  “So. Two deaths. The first, over land? Money? Jealousy? Something on those lines. Now two. Let us say one gun. One killer? Linked, surely?”

  “Reason for the second”, chimed in his sergeant, “to silence a witness to the first. Den, moving around as a poacher, is not an easy target to pinpoint. As a grave-digger, he was in the perfect position to be a target.”

  “I fear so. Off to Ma O.”

  As they bumped their way up the dirt track to the carriage that was Den’s home, slowly and with the engine quiet, Hole suddenly said: “Stop. Stop the car. I must see if it is!”

  He was quickly out, looking to the sky. The amateur ornithologist in him had heard an often-described but, by him, rarely met-with bird cry. In the air, ahead of them now as though leading them to their destination, was a pair of spur-winged plovers. Hole’s enthusiasm got his companion out beside him.

  “See! The slightly crested black crown? The black tail? Slow flyers, or we would have missed them. But it’s that cry. That loud, shrieking cry that I was taught to listen out for. ‘The more so as you’re a copper’, an old twitcher used to say to me. ‘Listen! They are calling “did he do it? did he do it?”’ And he’s right. That’s just what they are crying.”

  As the birds had now flown on, Maitland, even to please his boss, could neither agree nor deny that such was the call. Birds to him were robins and sparrows which the wife fed with nuts in the winter along with the pretty little blue tits and the greedy, grabbing starlings. Hole seemed transfixed.

  “What do they mean? Have they a message for us?” Maitland knew they were searching hard for clues; for any lead going. He didn’t think this was one, especially with Den dead, but he did his best to enter into his master’s mystic mood.

  “Maybe they are keening, in the Irish tradition, for the soul of the departed.”

  Hole snapped out of his reverie.

  “Den would as soon shoot them on sight if he thought he could get away with it. But it’s good to see them. The right ground for them, of course. Wetland, estuary, marshes. Yet I haven’t seen any for years. Alan Tewkes’ work is still progressing. His plan is still attracting new birds. If they are keening for anyone it’ll be for him. But on! Forgive my boyish outburst. Let’s go and see if Ma Olive is keening yet. I’ve no doubt that she has heard. Or divined the news.”

  The carriage door opened. The little, untidy figure with the determined air stood there. Again no acknowledgement. No invitation. Instead, a statement that set Hole searching for the right words of reply.

  “So he’s dead then. All’s over for him. Always was silly in his cups.” The slightly antiquated style of speech, stiff and careful, put Hole in mind of the person who acte
d as Galina Foxley’s factotum, though she spoke with no hint of foreign accent. He made no attempt to speak. Waited.

  “You want to question me? I was here all of the morning, and I’ve those who can prove it, if that is what you want.”

  “No. I don’t want.” Hole saw no need to alarm, if that was possible, the old lady. “But I would like to know if you can help us find who did this.”

  “Shot him? One of the local rabbits or a passing goose for all I know.”

  Hole wanted to look over Den’s room. His bedroom compartment. He debated how to make the request. Maitland did it for him, by a direct approach.

  “Can we have a quick look over his room?” he asked. “It could help us.”

  “It won’t. Nothing there. If it’s his gun you’re after, you can have it. I won’t be needing it. Won’t miss it, either. A lot of care he ever took of it. If it wasn’t for me cleaning it, it would have blown his head off by now. Back-firing.” She gave a half nod of her head and stood back in the corridor of the old coach. Gingerly the two men entered. Hole was surprised at the good condition of the carriage. Ma Olive seemed to read his thoughts.

  “Did you not think I can keep a place tidy?”

  Hole again kept quiet. Ma led down the corridor, long past its swaying days on the west line tracks. As they followed her, Hole noted where two compartments had been knocked into one. ‘Their sitting room’, he thought. From his glance, again spotless. Furnished with one or two heavy pieces, out of character with the setting. On a panel designed for sepia shots of people in hats, skirts and ties, sauntering along the sea front at Paignton or Dawlish, hung a large, heavy-framed oil painting of some long-dead monarch or peer. Odd! Their hostess hurried on a few paces, then pointed into a bunk-bedded room. Very bare. A gun. No safety case. Den was free of prosecution over that. No books or magazines. A few clothes, worn but warm-keeping. Wet weather wear. A couple of large fishing nets – poachers have no time to wait upon lines; at least no hand grenades! – and an array of boots. The range, some expensive looking, or had been when new, probably bought at car boot sales or in charity shops, drew his attention. And Ma’s.

  “If there’s one thing you’ve got to look after if you live off the country it’s your feet. Get them bad and you’re stuck. You need good feet in Den’s line of business.”

  Hole wondered if the outburst might herald more revelations, but nothing was added. The two policemen looked around, not as professionally as they would have under other circumstances, but there was not likely to be much of interest in this simple set-up. Hole fastened on the one lead Ma had given them.

  “He was a bit too talkative when he’d had a drink or two then?”

  “Always told him to learn to hold his tongue. I said to him more than once that if he talked too much he would talk himself into a cell. Or an early grave. And now he has.”

  Hole took the old one’s point. Pity Den hadn’t. The Inspector thanked Ma, put in an expression of regret which drew no response of any kind – would she cry when they left? Was there that degree of affection? – and, making a mental note to check with Social Security that whatever could be done for her, now living alone, was done, left.

  “Where to now, sir?”

  Hole looked at his watch.

  “The Bell. They’ll still be open, and the talk there will be analysing this as thoroughly as we are, I’ve no doubt”. The car bumped back down the track, this time with no crying escort from the skies.

  The harbingers of death had gone their ways, no doubt to repeat the saga while an audience could still be found. Goschen was in session still. There were three men in the bar, two known to Hole by name and the third someone he had passed the time of day with.

  “Come to refresh yourself after a hard day’s sleuthing?”

  “Bit more formal this trip, Ted.” Gerald Hole had been in school with Ted Goschen. As with the church, there was still a local feel to the pub. The community retained direct links with its own past, fast fading though they were. The Warburtons’ death broke another strand. Both policeman and publican had been in Mr Warburton’s Sunday school class. At moments like this, a common background was a decided advantage.

  “Want to ask you about Den. No!” he exclaimed as the others in the bar showed signs of moving on, “hang on a bit if you will. If you’re not driving, have another with me. Halves or pints? You might be able to chip in something.” The largesse had its reward. A relaxed and co-operative atmosphere was quickly established. Hole introduced Maitland and added to the order with a half of real ale for them both.

  “Glad it’s the real you want. Like that business guy. The one with the white Roller. The one the good ladies at the wetlands can’t get over. Here again he was, only this morning. If I heard aright, he had been up to Wickton. I was pulling his leg a bit about his buying it. Only because of what he said the first time he was here. Friend of Mr Jeremy Tewkes, he said.”

  Hole analysed this statement as he paid for the drinks. The landlord refused to join them. He had had a good start, and the way things were going, he might be quite busy the coming evening.

  “It’s Den that interests me at the moment, more than that chap,” said Hole.

  “Here last night. Den.”

  “Saw him myself”, chimed in one of the drinkers with a toast-like gesture to his benefactor. “Getting on his hobbyhorse again. Thought it was not altogether wise, myself. Said so. ‘Either spill it out or shut up’, I told him. ‘I’m not interested in your make-believe.’ But that was Den. Enjoying being the centre of attention over his little mystery.”

  “What mystery would that be?” Hole was interested.

  Ted Goschen answered.

  “Been on about it for a few weeks now. Reckoned he knew a thing or two about the death of Alan Tewkes. Wouldn’t say what though.”

  “Fly enough in his way”, added one of the others, “but wanted to show off at the same time. Said he knew what was going on and that he knew how Tewkes had been killed.”

  “Not much mystery about that last bit,” said Maitland. “We all know how he was killed.”

  “Ah! Yes. As may be. But by who?”

  Hole was glad Annie wasn’t there to correct the grammar. As she was unavoidably apt to do.

  “Go on.”

  “Don’t want to speak ill of the dead. Den that is. But he did go on about what he had seen.”

  “What had he seen?”

  “He was not specific. As I say, wouldn’t say what.” This from Goschen again. “I’ve had him banging on about it since the shooting. Comes in most Wednesdays and Saturdays, and isn’t a stranger other nights either. Poaching must pay well.”

  “Who’s talking ill now?” was the friend’s rejoinder.

  Hole ignored the poacher line. He was glad he had taken the decision to get on to Social Services. It sounded as though the late lamented had been well enough off to indulge himself, maybe at the price of supporting Ma Olive.

  Goschen continued.

  “So far as I could gather, Gerry, I think a lot of it was for effect. He didn’t have much to boast about so he made the most of any village gossip he picked up on what he would call ‘his rounds’. He said he had been down by the river when Alan was shot, and he had seen something.”

  “Yet didn’t come to the police!” from Maitland.

  There was a general laugh at the idea of Den voluntarily going to the police about anything. If he had news he wanted to turn it to his advantage if he could.”

  “Was he blackmailing somebody with this possibly?”

  Goschen considered this.

  “Not impossible. In a way. He wouldn’t be out and out grasping. Not clever enough for a start. But smart enough to put a bit of pressure on. Just for a few quid. I don’t think he had it in him to push anything too far.”

  “His target might not know that.”

  “Like as not.” There was a pause.

  What Hole had heard so far was in keeping with his assumption as to why Den h
ad been killed. But it wasn’t much use. He may have seen someone. He might have extracted a few quid from whoever it was. He liked showing off in the pub. His talk there could have been heard by the other body involved, directly over the bar or indirectly. Reported or overheard, no matter. Who knows how far a boast made in public will drive a victim to extreme defensive action? Then again, someone who had heard Den could, with no idea of who was involved, have passed on the poacher’s remarks, without realising it, to the person concerned. Such a case could well have led to panic, and a decision to silence the man for good.

  They chatted on for a while. That Den knew something was generally agreed. That he had been unwise to boast about it was also acknowledged.

  “Then again”, said the one Hole knew only by sight, “don’t forget Ma.”

  “In what way?”

  “She would know what Den was up to if anyone does. And pass on any gossip and tittle-tattle at Mrs Carmichael’s emporium.”

  Hole was grateful for the idea. He hadn’t thought about asking Ma. He should have. He had no interest in her as a suspect, but as a source of background gossip? Lacking books or television, so far as he had seen, what else would they do of an evening if Den was at home. Or back from the Bell? He would have to approach her again if nothing else turned up. He turned to the last speaker:

  “Anything in particular? That you heard of?”

  “Something. In my line, that’s why it stuck.”

  Hole then remembered where he had seen the man. When he and Annie had considered changing house. They hadn’t. Why move? But this was the chap they had talked to in the estate agent’s office. He must have a day off.