“Thought so! Never owned one, mind you, in case – and I wouldn’t put it past you lot – this is some sort of trap. To trip me up!”
“As if I would!”
“Ha! So you say. Yes, I have heard of it. Indeed, I have seen one somewhere, but not for a few years now. No one I know round here sports one. Here it is! Checking, in order to be sure I’ve got it right, but thought I had the one you want in my mind. If I may hazard an assessment, it’s more the gun you would go for as a first one for a boy. An experienced shot would, I fancy, not hang on to it long. I may be prejudiced. Way I was brought up, on guns.” He referred to the open page. “The Harrier is a twelve bore, as you say, and what we call a side-by-side shotgun.” He didn’t explain the phrase; Hole didn’t want to distract him from his research.
“Made by an Italian gunmaker. I couldn’t have recalled the name, but here it is. Luigi Franchi of Brescia.”
Hole didn’t think that the name of the maker would be of much interest but was glad that he was getting the response he did. Thornley was engrossed in his hobby and his interest. The detective could see no signs of any hesitancy in his host’s manner as he read on.
“This Franchi firm makes an over-and-under shotgun” -was that the same as side-by-side? wondered Hole; presumably it was – “called the Harrier. Only one listed here under that name. A modified Browning design with interchangeable choke tubes and 28 inch barrels. There’s also a model called the Harrier Supporter with a 30 inch.”
Hole asked for the book, and copied down the information. It would help confirm, he very much hoped, whatever it was the lab had, surely by now, got to the Chief Super.
“That has been most helpful.”
“Can I ask for what?”
“Sorry. Not at this stage. Don’t know all that much myself. What you have given me is as much as I have learned.”
“About the gun, no doubt. But why ask me? Plenty of specialists in your walk of life surely?”
“Speed, and confidence in my source.”
Thornley had to be content with that flattering reply. He was well aware that Hole must have had a more personal, in him and his reactions, interest for coming out to the Grange like this, but was too experienced a mover in officialdom’s circles to press further. What he did fancy was that he would be getting no more visits from Hole, unless one at his request. That would depend on whether he could recall where he had seen a Harrier. He knew he had. In use. He moved over to the drinks cabinet as Hole drove away, and poured himself a memory-inducing tot.
Chapter Twenty Four
he good fortune that had been Hole’s when he called at the Grange was not to be Maitland’s at Fox Lea.
“Mrs Foxley has made a journey to London, there to conduct business. She will be there three or four days. Maybe more. I cannot say. I will inform her when she returns that you have called and that you wish to see her.”
’The English-language automaton had so spoken to the good Sergeant Maitland’ as he was to report, semi-verbatim, when he caught up with his boss. No joy there. Failing Galina, Maitland had time to fill in until Annie Hole was free from school and came to join him at the church. To use the time constructively, he took the opportunity to immerse himself in the Bracegirt death scene. In this way, he reckoned he would be better equipped to interpret whatever it was his boss’ wife would be able to tell him. He drove to the church, parked, and walked up to the building as Mr Enderby came out of the main door.
“Good afternoon, sergeant. The minister is in the church if you want to speak to him. I’ve been helping him to tidy things away.”
“Thank you. Don’t really want to trouble him. Just look around. If that’s all right.”
“I’m sure it is. Mr Henshaw would make no objection. People do it all the time. Visiting graves mainly. So long as they are alive or remain living in the area. Far too many are left unattended I fear. Graves, that is.” He gave his titter of a laugh. “We do what we can, of course, and some families continue to contribute to the upkeep. But far too many, I’m afraid, go their various ways in forgetfulness.”
“Not the Warburtons?” Maitland saw no harm in repeating this line of enquiry.
“Far from it. Never forgot their one child, Rose May. Her name is as freshly legible as it was on the day the headstone was cut. The little girl died before I came to live here, but the inscription is as new. One of them visited every day, and would give the name a little, loving polish. Most days both came, until Mrs Warburton’s final illness.”
“They kept their grave area in good condition as well, you say.”
“Absolutely. Perfect. Never came without a pair of shears or secateurs, brush or rubbish bag, to trim and tidy. Even brought their own watering can. Not that we don’t have any, but ours are a rather heavy, old-fashioned sort. They only brought flowers on her birthday in the latter years. ‘Made such a mess’ they would sadly say. I told them, as did the Vicar, not to worry about that. They were punctilious in tidying up. But I think the cost as much as anything led them to rely on the bushes, and on that tree that they planted themselves about fifteen years or so ago now. They rather stopped being gardeners, so no home-grown flowers. Got too much for them I fancy, so we allowed them to plant the shrubs. These became practical, of course, only when that part of the churchyard became a backwater, so to speak. No one else to be troubled by the growth.”
Maitland wanted to push a little further, although not certain as in what direction. The churchwarden was making moving-on signs, so he hurriedly put in:
“As they liked flowers, it was extra kind of Mrs Foxley to offer to prepare some for their funerals. Not that they would see them,” he added lamely.
“It was. Mr Henshaw was pleased, I know. Mrs Foxley had done some lovely preparations for the last time the Bishop was here. All now wasted, sadly. The Warburtons’ displays.”
“I suppose so. You will know that we have finished with the ground. The funeral can go ahead. At last.”
“I know. Next Friday it’s now arranged for. I do hope there is no more difficulty. If I may dare use the word but, happily, the ground on the bank being generally drier and lighter than in some other areas, Den had more or less finished the digging before – before it – the sad death, happened. Too late for Mrs Foxley’s flowers, alas. Had to be thrown out.”
“With all the greenery?”
“Oh yes. But that is easy to replace. It’s the flowers that, I understand, she paid for. Such a waste. That’s what we’ve been busy at. Clearing out. The Vicar is doing the final tidying up now. He’s asked me to call in on Mrs Foxley and ask, he felt sure it was not too forward a request, to ask her if she would be able to replace them. For Friday.”
Maitland had to disappoint Enderby, although saving him a wasted journey.
“That’s a shame. We must, still, try and manage to find a few. I’ll see what I’ve got in my garden before I worry Mr Henshaw about it. Of course, there is Mrs Hole. Maybe… ?” he muttered to himself as, with a concerned look about his eyes, the good man took his leave.
Maitland thought about going in to see the Vicar then and there. He rather hoped that the rejected greenery might still be get-at-able. But decided instead to stick to his own first plan of making a patrol of the ground successfully covered by Muriel Sanders and her team. He was still ambling along the top edge of the embankment when he saw Annie Hole coming towards the church, so made his way back to meet her.
“Good of you to come. And on time. A little early, if anything.”
“Would you expect anything else? Of me?” with a smile. “How can I help?” The sergeant explained her husband’s wishes.
“Of course, but I went hardly any distance. I’ll show you, certainly, but all I needed I was able to get just a few yards from the main building.” So saying, she led him along the side of the church to the door that gave access to the vestry and the downstairs room where she and Galina had been putting together the flowers for the already re-arranged funeral.
/>
“I just cut from there. See! That bush, and those two to the left. Suited fine. I only had to flesh out the major cuttings that Galina Foxley had taken.”
“Do you know where she got hers from? I wouldn’t normally ask, but she’s not going to be available for a few days. Maybe even a week. So any indication would help. We are trying to tie in what you two did with some other signs of vegetation damage that uniform have found. If we can eliminate your work we might, just might, get a lead as the path taken by the killer by following some bushes that have been bent and broken.”
“I see, but I’m not likely to be of much use. She went out on her own. Most of what she gathered she had already brought down into the vestry by the time I joined her. Still – ah! but wait a minute. I wonder if the stuff is still there?”
“It isn’t. Mr Enderby told me not ten minutes or so ago. It has been cleared out because of the delay in the funeral. The Vicar, he said, is doing a final tidy up right now.”
“Pity. For if I had that stuff, faded or not, I could give a better guess as to where it came from. To help you with your enquiries”, and she gave the sergeant, what might well have been called at the Grange that afternoon, an ‘old-fashioned’ look.
Maitland was glad of a chance of some action.
“Come on! We might yet save it. Find it, I mean. Come on!” He led the way into the church.
The Vicar was on his knees at the altar as they walked down the aisle. He looked up.
“Come on down. I’m not practising for the Eucharist. Doing a final clean-up of the last petals and leaves that have fallen.” He had a small brush and pan in his hands.
The two went forward and joined him. Maitland explained their task.
“The flowers are in the main bin. Can’t leave those lying around. Too messy, and we aren’t fully into all this green re-cycling as yet, though the PCC has it on the agenda. The greenery? That I threw onto the pile of old wood and similar stuff at the rear. I’ll show you.” He did.
Annie was pleased.
“Thank you.”
Maitland asked her:
“Is it all there?
“I couldn’t possibly tell after this length of time. That’s the problem.”
“I’m pretty sure it is,” said Henshaw. “All of it. It all went there. Enderby and myself did it between us a short while ago,” and the Vicar, freed of further sleuthing, returned to his humble task of making ‘it and the altar fine’. Annie began sorting through the discarded stuff. One piece caught her attention.
“There it is. Struck me as distinctive and very suitable when I first saw it.”
It did not look particularly attractive to Maitland, but he realised that the passage of time had done much to spoil it. It was a smooth stem with the remnants of a small white flower, the first of the Spring he assumed, and limp, indented leaves. He waited clarification.
“There can’t be many of these. Shall we go and look?”
This is what Maitland wanted. He led the way quite deliberately along the path that the police were now sure must have been the one taken by the killer. He didn’t make Annie struggle along the slope on the railway side, but kept along the top of the sandy, stony embankment. He could see, however, as he had earlier, that it was a fairly simple matter to make one’s way along the rail side far enough down to keep one’s head below the parapet. Annie stopped every now and again to compare shrubs with the range of stuff that she had in her hands, but her main interest was in the larger branch with the white flowers. Twice she noted other matches, and Maitland noted in turn that they fitted with the search results. They were too far from the death scene to be especially significant, but it helped that they could be eliminated. He pressed on.
“Thought you might like to see the death spot,” he said. “All clear now.”
Annie made no reply but walked along with him past the rank of over-grown pathways between the stained, faded and moss-covered stones that marked the long-forgotten remains of those who had once walked there themselves. Then the murder scene. It needed no advertising. Apart from the freshly-dug grave itself, covered now with a heavy tarpaulin held down with some heavy stones, the headstone stood out clear and cleaned, the product of over fifty years of care and caressing. Rose May had been the Warburtons’ flower, and cherished for the rest of their lives. She was surprised that it had not been removed for safety during the digging. With Farmer’s machine, it might have been necessary; Den must have been a careful workman. How long, Annie wondered, before the lettering, including that to be added, would fade into the abandoned illegibility of those around it? She broke her melancholy reflection by looking hard about her, and then stepping positively towards a mature tree that stood across the path and the edge of the embankment.
“This would never have been allowed to grow to such a size except in this neglected area,” she said. “Over ten years old I’d say. It’s from here I think this branch may have come.”
Both looked at the tree and held the piece of wood that Annie had brought from the waste patch against it here and there. It was possible. Very possible. There would need to be a more careful forensic study, but Maitland was hopeful. Annie seemed to sense not only what he was thinking but something of the import of what it was she had led him to.
“I’d better take care of that piece,” said Maitland.
“Will you leave it with me? Just for tonight? You can be sure I will take great care of it, but I would like to ring my son Mark at Kew. I’m pretty sure I know what this is, and if I’m right then it has a special import. I’d like to make sure. He’ll know. From my description. I’m confident. Let me get some information from him before I go too far or make a silly mistake that may mislead.”
Maitland couldn’t refuse the request of his Inspector’s spouse. He drove her home, she carefully nursing the branch in her lap. When he joined up with his boss, he made sure that he gave not only a full report on all that he had learned, but advised him of the location of what might be valuable evidence, evidence that was already deteriorating.
Arriving home, Hole didn’t have to raise Maitland’s concern.
“I’ve been talking to Mark.”
“Nothing wrong is there?”
“I rang him.”
“Ah! The Maitland evidence!”
“I thought Doug would be on to you about that.”
“He was. What I didn’t tell him, but should have maybe, was that I would entrust anything green to the safe-keeping of your hands far more readily than to his. But what of Mark?”
“I rang him about the cutting. The one that appears to have come from the tree next to the Warburtons’ grave. Our best guess is that it was planted by them, and then allowed to grow as that part of the churchyard became disused. It also helped screen the railway a little.”
“And?”
“And, as I told keen Doug Maitland he would, our brilliant son was able to recognise it from my description.”
“Not surprising. Professional to professional.”
“Distinctive. That was the key. Not that it was that easy. The give-away was the distinctive leaf pattern. Divided into three deeply toothed lobes. Also the flower head pattern. The outer ones are some three times the size of the inner – we were lucky they were that far advanced. From these, Mark was able to confirm it as a Guelder Rose. Grows to about twelve foot, he said. That ties in, too.”
“Taking it that the cutting in the vase in the church did come from that particular tree…”
“… I really don’t think there can be much doubt. The only one I’ve seen in the churchyard. Certainly the only one near the top of the embankment. That I can swear.”
“Good. Taking it, then, that it was taken from there, who took it?”
“A rhetorical question? The branch I took along with me from where the Vicar had thrown it was put into the display by Galina Foxley. And, before you say anything, yes, I do realise that what I am saying puts her at the murder scene.”
“But at
what time?”
“There you have me. Now, I’ve been thinking and thinking this over. I can, let me haste to put in, see why Galina would go for that particular cutting.”
“Its proximity to the grave?”
“Not really. There is a link, of course, but, as Mark was able to remind me – and I can say ‘remind’ about this – the Guelder Rose is known in this region, especially in the Cotswolds, as the King’s Crown from, wait for it, the ‘King of the May’.” Annie looked especially pleased at that. Her husband didn’t jump to the connection. She explained.
“Rose and May. Do you see? The two names associated with that tree and the names of their infant daughter. Rose May Warburton.”
Hole acknowledged the sensitivity of Galina, assuming, that was, that she had realised the particular relevance of the plant to the funeral she was arranging for. He wasn’t going to rush to any conclusion apart from that. If she had known it, then it was a sensitive choice, taking the cuttings because of what the bush was and where it was. Somehow he would have to find out if she had appreciated the significance of that particular shrub. If not, then the cutting could have been used as an excuse for being near the grave. A cover, in case she was spotted there at the time of Den’s murder.
“That tree had been planted and regularly tended by the Warburtons.” She went on to tell him what Enderby had said to Maitland. It agreed with the sergeant’s version given to him earlier. “The Guelder Rose prefers wet soil. The bank is dryish. The Warburtons watered it.”
“With their own light-weight can.”
“Just so. More. It is a tree that prefers to thrive in a copse. Not alone. But this one was cherished, encouraged all its life.”
“So. A sensitive choice of cutting. We can agree. But when? At what time did Galina cut it? Assuming it was her,” added the cautious policeman.
Annie had no hesitations.
“Oh, it was her all right. It was there, I tell you, when I got to the church and joined her. That is why I went out for some more backing greenery. She hadn’t got enough to do it justice.”
Goosey Goosey Gander Page 20