Goosey Goosey Gander

by Frank Edwards

  “Same reason, sir, as we’ve always hazarded. To shut him up. If Den saw someone, then it could have been Jeremy. If he was then out to blackmail someone, he would have looked upon Jeremy as being just as lucrative a touch as Galina. Jeremy was out and about shooting that morning the poacher was killed, as his wife let drop. On Reed’s account of that day, there was time for him to have come home via the churchyard.”

  “Dammit! And I thought we had the woman fair and square.”

  “We might still have. The case against her is as solid as it ever was. We mustn’t let her apparent philanthropy get in the way and soften our image of her. In any event, she may have wanted to set up St Stephen’s as a front. For the smuggling operations Doug Maitland, here, put to us the other day.” Maitland felt a surge of self-satisfaction.

  “We must get clear what she told her brother about the St Stephen’s venture, and when. We’ll need both their stories, and before they have time to confer. Who knows!”, Davis added, with a puzzle-solver’s smile – “they might be in it together.”

  The look on his two juniors’ faces told him that they weren’t going to go along with that. What they would do was go their different ways, one to Wickton and one to Fox Lea. By appointments. Their questions had to coincide. Those had to wait until Monday.

  The Reverend Mr Henshaw was getting into his stride. Modern sermons must not be overlong. Equally, he held that they should be fully developed. He felt a twinge of guilt. Taking half a verse as a text was slightly naughty. Not giving the true flavour, the full meaning. But who would know? Even Mr Enderby, in his proper place, would not have troubled to take a quick look in a bible when he had announced his ‘St John, chapter eight, verse forty one.’ If anyone had, there was every chance that they would have referred to a different edition.

  Mr Enderby sat at the end of his pew, his gold-topped wand of office firmly upright at its side, held by the two brass clips and founded in the wood that would not move. He had his intent look upon his face as he turned towards the pulpit. The flowers were very well suited. He had been right to leave them in that part of the garden. They had come on a treat this year.

  In his, family-proper, pew DeLacey Thornley, also unaccompanied, wondered whether the Galilean fishermen had ever gone duck shooting. Not with rifles, of course. Not then. But something better than blowpipes he imagined. How did one direct a blowpipe so as to maximise the effect of the breath at the right angle of shot?

  ‘Digger’ Hole sat next to Annie. The Vicar had moved on from his Kipling quote:

  The Colonel’s Lady an’ Judy O’Grady

  Are sisters under their skins!

  Were Marcia and her sister-in-law sisters under their skins? Equally avaricious skins? Maybe? Was that fair? He would know more on the morrow. He hoped. As for the quote! From his three year short service commission in the County infantry regiment, before he had decided on a police career, he had known one colonel the memory of whom brought a smile to his lips to rival that of Mr Enderby. That one had enjoyed his Lady and a regimental Judy. All were as one to him! But not in the manner that Mr Henshaw was now climaxing on.

  Annie’s opinion was that if, as the good man was saying, we were all the same in the sight of God, then it was as well that His heaven had many mansions. Not even God would be able to fit all the people she knew into one, to live together in celestial harmony. Her imagination wandered. How far apart would the mansions have to be that housed them? At this point she wandered into reveries involving such a mixing together of certain parents with whom she had to deal. That would be a hard task for St Peter, or whoever it was made the detailed allocation. And as for how the mansions would be shared out among, say, Hitler and Mother Theresa or, worse, Mrs Carmichael! She was brought back into focus when, by the tone of voice from above and from long experience of sitting below, the congregation returned to communal concentration for the peroration.

  “So, my brethren, for all God’s children we are as the text so aptly puts it – we have one Father, even God. When people ask me how is it that we can offer the same concerns, the same duties, indeed, the same love in Christ, to the Warburtons and to Den Bracegirt, I reply, so too must we to the killer of Den. And all other wrongdoers. We are not empowered to discriminate. God does not discriminate. If a stranger, hungry, thirsty, naked, homeless, passes our way, we are to take him in and shelter him and treat him as one of our own family. In that way, and in that way alone, will we, in our turn, find the true path to heaven.” And he announced the last hymn.

  Hole wondered how the dutiful Jeremy Tewkeses, resplendent in their best country black and correctly spaced from the front, were responding to that? He was glad that he had settled on Wickton, leaving Galina to Maitland. Maybe he could work in a reference to this sermon when asking them about the exciting plans for St Stephen’s.

  They were back with Davis. He gave off a sense of urgency. They had their reports to make and some conclusions to reach. Possibly decisions. Maitland went first.

  “I talked around our last visit, on the pretext of checking my notes. She is adamant that she never saw her late husband’s gun. Insists they met only after her father had re-introduced shooting to the Duke’s land, and then only saw him use a gun loaned to him by Mortlemann. She repeats that she was, in law, by verbal agreement, a partner in Alan’s wetlands. She says that she has no intention of closing that down, but she does want to use part of it to build a centre for Hungarian studies, or some such. Based on the gatehouse, with some extra annexes. I can’t decide if it’s little more than a hostel or whether it’s a more ambitious educational and recreational centre to help incomers adjust to life in the UK. Whatever the detail, she sounded sincere in her purpose.”

  “And on the particular matter?”

  “She says, sir, that she told Jeremy and Marcia after Alan’s killing. She says that it was confirmed in the letter her lawyer, Susan Garland, sent to them claiming the partnership rights. She says that, as a result, she had an abusive telephone call from Marcia Tewkes and,” he looked at his book, resting on his knee, “a ‘completely unacceptable rant’ from her brother. A few days later. ‘Put up to it by Marcia, no doubt’ was her opinion. She says that she reported the two conversations to Ms Garland, and that we are free to ask her about them if we wish.”

  “You didn’t mention the Bracegirt murder? The evidence that places her at the Warburtons’ graveside?”

  “No sir. I would need Inspector Hole to be with me for that. I was only there to clarify and amplify our last session.”

  “Fair enough. And you, Digger?”

  “No mention of inappropriate phone calls, sir. That’s for sure. They didn’t show me the letter from Ms Garland, but they did let drop that they had shown it to Reed.”

  “Reed? Now that seems odd. Did you ask for it?”

  “No. I wanted to keep up the illusion that I was no more than seeking help from two people whose word I could trust absolutely. In any case, I’m sure we can see it whenever we like.”

  “I already have. At least, the one we got from the Garland office did set out the partnership claim. But there was no mention of the St Stephen’s project. Why should Galina Foxley have told Maitland otherwise?”

  “Two letters?”

  “We can check. Go on. What did they say about the proposed Hungarian embassy extension?”

  “They knew of it. Had been told of it by Galina. They couldn’t remember when they spoke. Not sure if it was before or after they received Ms Garland’s letter, which had nothing about St Stephen’s in it. They claim that the letter didn’t trouble them much. Their line was that they were confident that, despite the letter, she was on shaky ground legally. Jeremy’s stance is that, come the day, the land will be theirs. That shooting will recommence as historically and rightfully it should, and that certain political strings are being most effectively pulled – I took it he was referring to Thornley operating behind the scenes with the powers that be in planning, if nowhere else.”

>   “Did he now?”

  “I then tackled him with the previous day’s sermon.”

  “That’s what I call a novel approach! Hoping for a confession were you?”

  “The homily had been upon loving our brethren – that means absolutely everyone – and welcoming them into our homes whenever any of them needed assistance. I put it to them, as fellow-receivers of Mr Henshaw’s Sunday best, that they should feel warm and supportive to this venture of Galina’s. More, that they owed it to their forefathers if not to God to provide such a service for incomers from that country. Jeremy, give him his due, hesitated and did not take up my point. But he scarce had time to. Marcia jumped straight in. Not only was she not Hungarian, no member of her family had ever been Hungarian. I think she would have submitted to a DNA, blood or any other test there and then had I dared to dispute the purity of her English blood.”

  “And how pure is that?” queried the Welsh Detective Chief Superintendent. Hole went on.

  “Although they made no mention of it being in the letter, and although they remained vague about exactly when they did learn of the plans for the immigrant centre, we finally settled on the likelihood that they were told after Alan’s killing. That ties in with what Maitland has just told us. As to timing that is. This St Stephen’s thing may well be, for us, nothing but a red herring. Somebody killed Alan Tewkes to, in my mind, get that land. Probably to revert it to shooting, hence Thornley’s oft referred-to interest. Or to sell it for cash. Hence Reed, who most certainly wanted it. The key remains Den. What did he see? Who did he see? Who was it he then began pressurising with his hints and boastings? All the rest of the obscurantism is no more than people defending their amour propre, if Maitland will allow my French.”

  Davis pondered. The other two watched his eyebrows wiggling and jawbone moving in sympathy with near-verbal inner musings. At last he spoke. Firmly.

  “We must take the case against Galina Foxley into formal proceedings. I want her brought in for questioning. Under caution. Helping us with our enquiries. I don’t have to tell you the procedure. I shall inform Ms Garland myself. I want no delay. If there is no case to answer we must decide so. Before another killing, in fact. Give Mrs Foxley the formal warning, but there’ll be no harm in hinting that it is no more than an unavoidable administrative step to enable us to confirm past and get further evidence from her. I shall listen in, but leave it to you to deal with. We must put it to her that she had all the reasons and, certainly in the Bracegirt case, all the opportunity. Then see how she responds. There is also just a chance that if she is brought in, it might lead someone else to relax too much and let something slip.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  y client is happy to come here of her own free will, and does so with every wish to help you with your investigations. I am here that this willingness to co-operate on her part is not taken advantage of.” Susan Garland was firm to the point of being prim. Precise.

  Detective Inspector Hole acknowledged the statement, and went through the standard preliminaries, introducing Detective Sergeant Maitland as the officer conducting the proceedings with him. There was no need to mention that Detective Chief Superintendent Davis was listening in. He then had to begin.

  “You have been asked to come today, Mrs Foxley, because there are one or two matters connected with the murder of Den Bracegirt that I think you can help us clarify. Matters you did not mention at our previous meetings.”

  The two women opposite him were attentive. Ms Garland had an expensive-looking, seemingly gold-plated, pen in her hand and a leather-bound (?) notebook on the table before her. Hole wondered what her fee rate was. He went on.

  “When I spoke to you at the church on the day Den was shot, you did not tell me that you had been at the graveside, at the spot where the murder took place, at approximately the same time as the shooting.”

  “How could my client know when the shooting actually took place, Inspector? Are you accusing her of his death?”

  “You will recall that we were told how you had gone out looking for green cuttings to back up the flower display you were preparing for the Warburton funeral.”

  “As Annie would have told you,” was Galina’s reply.

  “As you both said when we saw you in the crypt. You went out on more than one occasion, once before and once after,” he paused momentarily, “Annie, my wife, joined you.”

  “No secret.”

  “On one of those occasions, you went to the graveside that was being deepened by Den Bracegirt. At what time was that? Before or after my wife joined you?”

  “Before. I think. Although it may have been afterwards. I really am not at all sure. It already seems an age ago.”

  “You didn’t mention it at the time.”

  “Didn’t seem particularly important then, either, I suppose. If I did go near the grave, then it was only because I was looking for the right sort of shrub. Not to kill anyone.”

  Susan Garland gave a warning cough.

  “There is no need to answer more than the straight question, Galina.”

  “I’ve nothing to hide from the Inspector. I did go near the grave. That’s true. I know I said something about not having gone through the long grass in the old part of the churchyard, but that was the second time. After Annie joined me. So, yes, I had already done my first collecting before she did so, and that was when I went along the embankment. There is a sort of path there. No long, wet, dirty grass. Or not much. I’m sorry if I didn’t mention that. It was for a special purpose, but not the one you seem to have in mind.”

  Hole looked at Maitland.

  “That’s true, sir. I walked along there myself. It’s quite an easy track.”

  “Can I hazard a reason? You wanted to collect a branch or two of the Guelder Rose – The King of the May’s Crown.” Hole watched intently for any reaction. Galina was surprised.

  “Just so! How did you know that? Oh, of course, that clever teacher wife of yours.”

  “The Vicar showed us where he had emptied the vases of greenery. The Rose cuttings were there. Very appropriately chosen. A sensitive and thoughtful gesture.” Hole hoped that would act as an olive branch as it were; he was not intent on being prickly as things stood.

  Neither woman said anything. He went on, looking as much at Susan Garland as at Galina Foxley.

  “If you were so close to the graveside, at a time that we now know,” he stressed the ‘now’, “to have been about that of the killing, I must press you as to anything you may have seen. Or heard. Any movement. Any person. If no one else, I take it that you saw Den at his work?”

  “I certainly heard him. Or I took it to be him. He was down in the grave, digging.”

  “And you didn’t go to the grave side to see him or to exchange a greeting with him?”

  “No. I found what I wanted, I took my cuttings, and I came straight back to the church. We were, at that stage, trying to be as quick as we could in order to finish before Matins.”

  “We?”

  “I keep getting a little mixed up. Annie had not joined me then. When I went for the rose. The second occasion I went off, after she had, I just popped outside. Round the back of the building. Took no time. As I say, we were pushing on. She’ll tell you. Although, in the event, we needn’t have hurried. It all took longer than we planned, and we were trapped below, as it were, when we heard the Vicar arrive.”

  “Saw and heard nothing?”

  “What I took to be digging, but I’m not sure I would have known then who was doing the digging. Someone down there. His coat was hanging over the trolley at the edge. Could have assumed Den, of course. Mr Henshaw had mentioned he was helping out with the work there.”

  “And you didn’t have a gun with you? Your husband’s?” This brought a rapid response from Ms Garland.

  “An outrageous question, Inspector! Are you or are you not accusing my client?”

  Hole held up his hand.

  “No. But let me finish. It must be p
ut on the record. I know you say that your husband’s gun was never at Fox Lea in your time. It had been before. Your gun safe has held two guns. We know that it was that gun, your late husband’s gun, that killed Den Bracegirt.” Hole could only rely on his Super’s expressed confidence in that fact. “You must see the need for my question. You could have had the gun at home, even if not in the case. You could have taken it to the church with you in the boot of your car. Walked along the embankment with it, shot Den, and then thrown it into a conveniently passing goods train with every expectation of its never being seen again.”

  “My client can have nothing to say to such proposition. Are you placing a charge or not?”

  “Hold it, Susan. I have nothing to add to what I told Mr Hole before. Whatever gun it was that James had, he left it with the others used by the Duke’s shoot. I never saw it. He never claimed it back, so far as I can possibly tell, and he never used it in my company. In fact, I never saw it. What more can I say? Except this,” and here Galina looked particularly sharp, “why on earth do you suppose that I would want to kill Den Bracegirt? I didn’t know the man. Only of him. Like most around here.”

  “We have reason to believe that Den was killed to stop him saying what or who he saw on the morning of your brother Alan’s death. In short, to silence him.”

  “And are you now suggesting that Mrs Foxley shot her brother as well!”

  Hole saw that he was on the verge of losing it. Davis had the same concern from his eyrie. The DI played his hand as best he could.

  “The gun that killed Den Bracegirt was used to kill your brother. You are still helping us. We are not, as yet, preferring any charge. I must ask these things. I need to know all I can. Who had the gun goes, in my mind increasingly, with who wanted Alan’s land. You wanted it. You have said so.”

  “Part of it. For St Stephen’s. Others wanted it more. To close down the wetlands. My brother Jeremy and his wife for starters. And,” she rushed to add, “I’m not accusing them. Just commenting. There are others who wanted the land to revert to its former use as well as them.”