Pollard turned in his chair to see strands of white mist hurrying soundlessly past the window.
‘Glad I got down here when I did,’ he said.
‘Black or white?’ enquired his aunt from behind the coffee percolator.
‘Black, please. May I smoke?’
‘If it’s essential to your well-being. I’m glad to see you’ve cut down.’
He grinned at her, lit up, and reclined contentedly with his long legs stretched out to a small log fire, feeling well fed and relaxed. Cosy but uncluttered, he thought, looking round the room with its crimson carpet and its white walls. The haphazard alcoves you got in these old cottages were perfect for pieces of good china… Trust Aunt Is to make a smooth job of her retirement home. Night storage heaters, a deep freeze … the lot. He transferred his gaze to Isabel Dennis herself, and decided that intelligence and character in a woman’s face wore better than conventional good looks. Jane would want to paint her, sitting so upright in that straight-backed chair, with her crisp grey hair and lively dark eyes.
‘How tiresome that the powers that be had to pick on you for this case,’ she remarked.
‘Why, aunt? Is having your policeman nephew around making you feel conspicuous?’
‘Not in the least. At least, it is, and I’m enjoying it. No, it’s only that I’m afraid you mayn’t want to bring Jane and the children down next summer after being here professionally.’
‘Actually, I haven’t been involved with many of the locals,’ he said. ‘It’s been the Horner crowd mostly. Is this let to Horner an annual affair?’
‘Oh, no. It’s the first time ever, only arising because his hotel at Biddle Bay was damaged by fire. Normally we let for one fortnight only, to a children’s home from the Midlands.’
‘He’s paying you through the nose for the place, I suppose?’ Pollard looked at her quizzically.
‘Of course he is. All the same, I wish we could put the clock back. It’s turned out more hindrance than let, and the antis on the governing body are crowing like cocks.’
‘On what grounds were they anti? I should have thought it was a very sound scheme.’
Isabel Dennis’s quick glance flicked over him.
‘The Old Girls’ representative weren’t happy for St Julitta’s to get involved with a popular set-up like Horner’s Holidays. Hugh Stubbs, the founder of the Kittitoe Residents’ Association, was convinced that it would bring in a swarm of undesirables, and lower the tone of the village. He’s being insufferable at the moment.’
‘Tell me some more about this apprehensive chap,’ Pollard invited.
‘He’s a retired civil servant, who settled here some years back, picking up a derelict village house, and modernising it to Ideal Home standard. He feels threatened, and his defensive action has turned him into a local menace.’
‘How threatened?’
Isabel Dennis was silent for a moment, and turning her head slightly, met her nephew’s gaze.
‘This is only my purely personal opinion, Tom,’ she said emphatically.
‘Fair enough, Aunt Is,’ he replied reassuringly. ‘Let’s have it, all the same.’
‘As I see it, he feels his whole way of life is being undermined by the general upheaval that’s going on — technological, political, social, moral — you know. Hence the Kittitoe Residents’ Association, which works to prevent as far as possible any change in the place, and to keep the holiday industry as select as possible. More coffee?’
‘Thanks, I will. It’s super.’ Pollard handed her his cup, and waited for it to be filled. ‘But there’s something to be said for a KRA, surely?’ he went on. ‘I mean, it’s a lovely little village, and development ought to be carefully planned. That frightful caravan site’s gone quite far enough in the wrong direction.’
‘Of course, there’s a great deal to be said for a KRA of the right sort. But if you overdo the conservation idea, it so easily interferes with people’s liberty, and anyway defeats its own ends by putting their backs up. That’s what Hugh Stubbs is doing. He’s become quite unbalanced about the village, and his wife’s almost as bad. He’s heading for trouble,’ Isabel Dennis concluded vigorously.
‘What sort of trouble? Somebody taking him to court?’
‘More likely somebody beating him up. One aspect of all this is that on the pretext of maintaining decent standards of behaviour in the place during the summer holiday season, he’s apparently becoming a Peeping Tom.’
Pollard looked up sharply at this echo of Constable Pike and Toye.
‘Is there any real evidence of this?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I think one can say there is. It’s been quite openly talked about lately, even up here, in Holston. My woman’s son took his current girlfriend down to the Biddle Bay sand dunes one evening recently, and according to her, Hugh Stubbs came creeping up on them. And I happened to see something decidedly odd happening last week. On the night of that poor child’s murder, as a matter of fact.’
‘Which was?’ Pollard prompted.
‘Well, I think you know I’ve taken up bellringing as a retirement hobby. We haven’t a peal here, so I ring down at Kittitoe. Our weekly practice is normally on Thursdays, from 8.30 to 9.30 in the evening. Last week it was changed to Friday because of a cricket match. I dropped in at the Vicarage afterwards, and came away soon after ten. As I drove out on to the Biddle Bay road, my headlights picked up a stationary car on the edge of the dunes. I was coming up to it when a man appeared running towards it, chased by another who was picking up stones and flinging them at him. As I drew up, I saw Hugh Stubbs scramble into the car, and the other man saw me and turned tail. There was a dog barking inside. It was the stickiest moment. I accelerated, and only trust Hugh Stubbs was too het up to recognize me. I watched in the driving mirror as I went on, and saw him drive off towards the village.’
‘I’m not going to pretend that this isn’t important,’ Pollard said after a brief pause. ‘Can you possibly be a bit more exact about times?’
Isabel Dennis leant forward and put another log on the fire with deliberate care.
‘Now I think back, I remember hearing the church clock strike ten when I was in the vicarage,’ she said. ‘It’s usually about two minutes fast. It was very soon afterwards that I got up to go. Arthur Fuller came with me to the door, and we stood nattering, but not for long. I must have left at six or seven minutes past ten, and it’s no distance to where Hugh Stubbs had parked. Say I saw it all happening at ten minutes past.’
‘Did you see any other cars as you came away? Parked, or on the road?’
‘No, I’m sure of that. It was raining, and the road was deserted.’
Pollard stubbed out his cigarette, and lit another.
‘About the chap who was chasing Stubbs,’ he said, ‘did you recognize him?’
‘No. He moved like a young man. I concluded at the time that Hugh Stubbs had been snooping, and found him with a girl in the shelter.’
‘Shelter?’
‘Yes. One of those seaside things with a lot of glass, and seats for people to enjoy the view. There’s one quite close to where the car was parked.’
‘That makes the snooping theory more convincing, doesn’t it, in view of the weather? I mean fun and games in the sand hills would hardly have been on.’
Pollard spoke abstractedly, his mind on the timetable drawn up with Toye. This timing was just right for the near miss with Boothby’s car, and the arrival of both parties at the King William, vouched for by Nancekivell… Was it even imaginable that if Stubbs had already been up to Uncharted Seas and murdered Wendy Shaw, that he’d go on to do a bit of snooping?
He switched to another topic.
‘Aunt Is,’ he said suddenly, ‘are you absolutely certain, beyond any doubt, that the chap chasing Stubbs wasn’t Don Glover?’
Their eyes met squarely.
‘Absolutely, and beyond any doubt, Tom,’ she replied firmly. ‘I deduce that you’ve been told that they’re at each other
’s throats?’
‘I have. I’ve also met Mr Glover. Separated him and Constable Pike, in fact. How about the lowdown on him?’
‘You know, I rather like Don Glover,’ Isabel Dennis said. ‘He’s terribly brash, and often behaves outrageously, but he’s got good points. Vitality, for instance, and he can be very generous.’
‘Pretty warm, I gather?’
‘Oh, yes. A very capable and prosperous business man, with his finger in any number of local pies. But in other ways he’s more like a child. Desperately anxious to cut a figure, you know. The trouble is that he isn’t persona grata with the social circle he thinks he ought to be in — he just hasn’t got what it takes, and can’t see it. Hence the aggressiveness and the pushing.’
‘I can see that the siting of that caravan colony of his isn’t likely to have made him popular.’
‘It certainly hasn’t, and there’s a frightful rumour going round that he’s trying to buy the land further up the hill, in order to expand the place.’
‘Good God! Let’s hope the Planning people put paid to that one. There seem to be so many loopholes, though, and I bet he’s got a smart lawyer. Going back to his social life, he’s apparently on visiting terms with Mr Horner.’
‘I’m surprised to hear that. Now I come to think of it, though, Don Glover backed the let so hard at a governors’ meeting that it nearly ended in us all voting against it.’
‘Do you think,’ Pollard asked, suddenly struck by an idea, ‘that they’ve got business interests in common?’
‘Unlikely, I should say. Don Glover’s interests are all local, and pretty small beer by the side of Horner’s Holidays.’
Pollard put his idea on one side for later consideration, and moved on rather cautiously to the subject of Andrew Medlicott. After all, Aunt Is was one of the chap’s employers…
‘Running a place like St Julitta’s must involve quite a bit of administration,’ he said casually. ‘Who copes with the finances?’
‘A small sub-committee of the governing body. We have a bursar for the routine work.’
‘Medlicott, he’s called, isn’t he? I ran into him the other day.’
‘Yes. He’s one of these unfortunate redundant executives in their fifties. We were very lucky to get him. He’s extremely competent. The only snag is that he’s an appalling worrier, and always takes the gloomiest view. This business has shattered him: he’s convinced that all the parents will remove their children because of the school’s name being brought in.’
‘Afraid of another job folding, I expect.’ Pollard stifled a yawn.
His aunt eyed him.
‘Why not put through a call to Jane while I get you a nightcap? You look as though you could do with a good night’s sleep.’
The first part of this programme was enjoyably carried through, but once in bed, Pollard lay awake for some time milling over his recent idea about Don Glover. Was the chap’s unconvincing story about an abortive business trip to Biddle Bay really covering up an abortive one to Uncharted Seas? Had he kept quiet about the latter for fear of being caught up in the investigation of the murder? An unpremeditated trip at 10.30 pm would suggest that he was on quite intimate terms with Eddy Horner — it must have been unpremeditated, because otherwise he would have known that Eddy was going to Stoneham, and wouldn’t he have known, if they knew each other well? Pollard wondered if the Stoneham trip was a regular Friday night fixture while Penny Townsend and the baby were at Kittitoe, and her husband working at the Horner office in London during the week? If so, quite a lot of people might have known that Wendy would be alone with the baby for some hours on the evening of her murder…
Of course, motive’s been the baffling thing all along, he thought, if one rules out a homicidal maniac of one sort or another. Attempted robbery interrupted by Wendy makes much more sense, but then there’s the complete absence of any trace of it, especially with that damned woman cleaning the place the next morning…
At the thought of the almost limitless field of suspects opened up by the attempted robbery idea he groaned aloud, and heaved himself on to his other side, cursing the reiterated booming of the foghorn. Utterly preposterous in the radar age…
Presently the recurring sound assumed a rhythm, and he slid into sleep.
Apparently without passage of time there was a brisk rattle of curtains being drawn back, and a flood of bright light in the room.
‘The fog’s cleared,’ Isabel Dennis announced. ‘Here’s a cuppa for you. I hope you’ve had a good sleep. I’m just about to have breakfast with Inspector Toye and a nice young constable who’s run him down from Stoneham. You needn’t hurry — your bacon and eggs are in the simmering oven.’
‘Good lord!’ Pollard exclaimed, sitting up hastily, and trying to adjust himself. ‘I must have slept like the dead.’
‘Excellent for the little grey cells,’ said his aunt, as she withdrew.
Pollard speculated on what had brought Toye down post haste, while he shaved, bathed and dressed. He was almost ready when he heard sounds of departure, and a car starting up in the street outside, presumably the nice young constable going off. Running downstairs to the kitchen, he found Toye at the toast and marmalade stage, and his aunt stacking crockery in the dishwasher.
‘Here you are,’ she said, producing a heaped plate, and pouring out coffee. ‘I’ll leave you both to get on with it while I start my chores.’
‘Very good indeed of Miss Dennis to lay on a slap-up breakfast like this,’ Toye remarked, as he returned from politely closing the door behind his hostess. ‘I appreciate it, and so did the young chap.’
‘Bet it’s your second breakfast of the day,’ Pollard said, taking up his knife and fork. ‘What’s the big idea behind this turning up at daybreak?’
‘The Gedges, sir. A patrol spotted them on the road at two o’clock this morning, about a dozen miles out of Stoneham, and brought them along to the station. That car window’s jammed all right. I tested it myself.’
It appeared that the Gedges had decided to return home a day early, and to drive through the night, avoiding the crowded roads of a Bank Holiday weekend. They had no car radio, and had not heard any broadcasts on the previous evening. Toye, roused from his bed by a telephone call to the hotel, had found them excited, and tiresomely facetious, but perfectly coherent when questioned. The gist of their statement was that when they left Kittitoe on the morning of Saturday, August 21, they had found the passenger window of their car jammed, leaving a gap of about three inches at the top. As it was raining hard, they had stopped at the first sizeable garage for repairs, only to be told that it was quite a big job, and couldn’t possibly be dealt with on the busiest Saturday morning of the year. There had been nothing for it but pushing on, with the gap stuffed up to the best of their ability. The weather had improved on Sunday and not wanting to be without the car for the rest of their holiday, they had decided to risk it, and wait to have the window mended when they got home.
‘Did they remember leaving the window open the night before?’ Pollard asked.
‘They had no end of argy-bargy about it at first,’ Toye said disapprovingly. ‘At the tops of their voices, too, in the middle of the night. In the end I got it clear that the last time they’d used the car on the Friday was before dinner. They’d run another couple down to the pub in Kittitoe for a quick one. It was when they were telling me this that Mrs Gedge gave a screech, and said she’d opened the window a bit on the way back to the school. The other three were smoking, and she wanted a breath of air. I said wouldn’t she have shut it before leaving the car, as it was raining, and they laughed like drains, and said it was just like them to forget all about it, and have the car awash the next morning. Mr Gedge said they were nearly late for dinner, and had to dash for it.’
‘Hence the careless parking, blocking Boothby, I suppose. Did you ask them if there were any signs of the car having been tampered with or moved, when they went out to it the next morning?’
&n
bsp; ‘I asked ’em, all right, but short of a wheel missing, or the car being shifted to the far end of the drive, I don’t think they’d have noticed a thing. Hit or miss types, they were. The coachwork was scraped and dented in half a dozen places, and you should have seen the muck inside. They just went on about what a yell it was baling out before they could start.’
‘I suppose there’s something to be said for that sort of outlook on life,’ Pollard commented, taking another piece of toast. ‘It’s apt to pall on a third party at two am, though. But you’ve brought along a useful confirmation of Boothby’s statement.’
‘Do you reckon this lets him out, sir?’ Toye asked.
‘In my own mind, yes. But if possible, we’ve got to find somebody who saw the car shifting business. I’ve covered a bit of ground myself, by the way.’
He proceeded to pass on his aunt’s account of the incident on the road to Biddle Bay, together with her comments on Hugh Stubbs, Don Glover and Andrew Medlicott.
‘Looks as though Stubbs is going the way of Boothby,’ Toye remarked. ‘One lead after another petering out. If Stubbs really didn’t leave home until a quarter to ten, and went straight back there when he left the pub car park, he’s right out.’
‘Right out,’ Pollard agreed. ‘Before we go along to the school this morning, we’ll contact Pike. He may have picked up something about one or other of these chaps.’
Getting up from the breakfast table, he went in search of his aunt.
Constable Pike had managed to unearth one useful piece of information. A Rittitoe resident who lived in a cottage beyond Stubbs’s house, and had walked past the latter just about half-past ten on the night of August 20, had seen his neighbour locking his garage after putting his car away. No, they hadn’t spoken, having had words about putting out dustbins, but Pike’s informant would swear to what he’d seen.
‘Jolly good work, Pike,’ Pollard said encouragingly. ‘Now we know when he got home, I want you to drop all these other people for the moment, and try to find out where Mr Stubbs was between eight and ten that night. Let’s have a look at your notes on his interview, Inspector.’
No Vacation From Murder Page 13