by Roger Keevil
“Funnily enough, it wasn't Miss Stein who told us, if that's who you're referring to. No … someone else entirely. But the point is, is it true?”
“Yes, of course it's true,” retorted Addy. “The man was a pest, and he made one remark too far, and it got under my skin, so I taught him a lesson. And I'll tell you one thing … it certainly made him change his ways. Around me, anyway. I can't answer for other people. But he was as nice as pie to me after that, and I haven't time to hold grudges, so as far as I was concerned, that was that.”
“You didn't regard it as unfinished business?”
“What? You mean, did I take it a step further and chase off up the lane and stab him in the back?” Addy snorted in derision. “Think about it, inspector. With my training, I've got more ways to kill a man than you can shake a stick at. If I'd wanted Rex Hope dead, I could have made a much tidier job of it.”
Constable was slightly taken aback at the offhand nature of the comment. “I dare say you could, Miss Knight.” He paused. “Oh, there was one other thing. I've had it mentioned to me that the hospitality of your establishment sometimes extends beyond what some might call conventional limits. Any comments on that?”
“So who's doing their best to drop me in it?” asked Addy, tight-lipped. “If it's not Phyllis, which I doubt, seeing she's got the longest nose and the biggest mouth in the village.”
“I really can't reveal the source of any information.”
Addy thought. “In that case, I bet it was Sam Booker.”
“Was he working here at the time of the incident with Mr. Hope?” enquired Constable neutrally.
“Was. Isn't any more.”
“No, he works for Mr. Farmer up at the Three Blind Mice now, doesn't he? We've certainly had a talk with him about the events of yesterday.”
“Hmmm,” grunted Addy. She stood abruptly. “Well, if that's all you have to ask me, inspector, I really ought to get on. A pub doesn't run itself. I have things to attend to at the back.”
“Then of course you must do so, Miss Knight,” said Constable, rising. “Just one thing before I go. All this talk of your own special ales – I'd be fascinated to take a look at where you make them.”
“Oh.” Addy seemed momentarily disconcerted. “Right. It's round here.” She led the way round into the pub's rear yard, and opened the door of one of the outbuildings. “Here we are. It's actually the old brewhouse. Most pubs used to brew their own before the big breweries came in and took everything over, so we've just brought it back to its original use.”
Alongside a large wooden tub, evidently of considerable age, stood a tall vessel in gleaming stainless steel, with associated pipes, funnels and tubes forming a complex set of equipment. “Very impressive,” remarked Constable. “Not that I'm really a beer man myself – that's more my sergeant, so you could quite easily talk of mash tuns and wort and baffle me completely.” He smiled. “Or foozle, I suppose I should say.” He caught sight through a half-open door of the shining copper coils and containers of what seemed to be a further installation. “And what's in there?”
“Oh, just another bunch of spare equipment,” said Addy. “Not very interesting really. All the beer-making goes on in here.” She pulled the door to.
“And I expect you're eager to get back to it. I'll be off. And if I have any further questions for you, I shall know where to find you, shan't I?” The inspector smiled pleasantly and set off back round the building in the direction of Church Lane, leaving Addy gazing after him, a speculative look on her face.
As Constable passed the churchyard, his eye was caught by a sturdy middle-aged woman, dungaree-clad, who was busily demolishing the particularly vigorous weed growth around an impressive Victorian tomb which was surmounted by a weeping angel.
She looked up, and hailed him with a cheery greeting. “Good afternoon. Beautiful day, isn't it? Just the sort of weather these blasted weeds like. Have to keep them under control, or they take over the place. Whoever said the devil makes work for idle hands certainly knew what he was talking about!”
A thought struck the inspector. He made his way into the churchyard. “I wonder, might it be possible to have a word with the vicar?”
“Nothing easier,” said the woman.
“Can you tell me where I might find him?”
“You've found her,” responded the woman, removing a gardening glove and extending a still rather grubby hand. “Reverend Salter. How can I help you?”
Constable introduced himself.
The vicar nodded understandingly. “Of course. You'll be looking into this dreadful business of Rex Hope.”
“I am, vicar. And I'm hoping that, as I gather you were about at the time, you may have seen something that might be relevant.”
“Come and take a seat in the porch,” suggested the vicar. “My aching back could do with a rest, so I shall gladly use you as an excuse to salve my conscience.” She made for the nearby entrance to the church and lowered herself on to an ancient-looking bench with a slight groan.
Constable took his place beside her. “Have you been in this parish long?” he began.
“About eight years,” replied the vicar. “Which is long enough to get to know pretty much everybody around here, if that's what you're fishing for.”
The inspector smiled, acknowledging the other's acuity. “You're very sharp, vicar. That was exactly my train of thought. I was wondering if you knew Mr. Hope.”
“Not well. He wasn't one of my regular worshippers. Rather better acquainted with Mammon than with God, I should say. But of course I knew him slightly through my husband.”
“Oh? In what way, may I ask?”
“They worked together. Well, not together, but for the same organisation. They used to catch the same train up to London most days.”
“Morgmann Brothers in the City, I believe.”
“That's right. My husband's in the legal department – Rex Hope was somewhere on the money side. But I'm not quite sure how this relates to what happened yesterday, inspector.”
“To be frank, Mrs. Salter, neither am I,” admitted Constable. “But at the moment I'm building as complete a picture of the victim as I can. Now, as regards yesterday, no doubt you'll be aware that the running team from the Three Blind Mice came past your church several times.”
“Yes.”
“I gather that you may have been outside at the crucial moment. Did you by any chance see any of those involved?”
“Yes, I was out here, as usual. I like to greet my parishioners as they're arriving for the service as well as when they leave. You know, a little like the reporter on the aircraft carrier in the Falklands - 'I count them all in, and I count them all back out again'.”
“Including Miss Stein.”
“Ah yes. Phyllis. One of the more assiduous members of my flock. Always keenly involved in the affairs of the parish.”
“I believe she likes to know everything that is happening locally, Mrs. Salter,” said Constable solemnly.
“I think we understand one another, inspector.” The vicar's eyes sparkled, but she maintained an admirably straight face.
“And Miss Stein tells us that she witnessed the runners. I'm wondering if you did the same.”
“Well, yes and no. Of course, I was in the throes of welcoming the arrivals, but I did notice Penny Farmer. Mind you, it would have been hard not to, given the particularly lurid shade of pink she was wearing. Yes, she skipped past on her own at quite a rate of knots, and then I was speaking to someone, so my attention was distracted. Oh, I did see that young man who works for her ...”
“Sam Booker?”
“That's the one.”
“And Mr. Hope?”
“Sorry, no. That was after she'd gone by, though, and I wasn't really paying attention. But I'm afraid that's all. The service began shortly after that, and of course when we emerged, it was to find quite a scene of activity. I don't know I can tell you anything beyond that.”
“Then I'll be
on my way, and leave you to tackle your weeds.” Constable got to his feet. “I would offer to help ...”
“... but you have other pernicious growths to deal with,” smiled the vicar. “Don't worry, inspector. A little hard work never did anybody any harm. In fact, this morning has given me an idea for my next sermon. I think I shall spend the rest of my weeding time composing a text on the parable of the wheat and the tares. I'm sure sorting out the two is a task you're familiar with in your job. Not, I imagine, that you can wait until the day of judgement to resolve matters.”
“No, vicar,” replied Constable. “The mills of God may grind exceeding slow, but I try to work a little faster.”
*
Andy Constable turned out of the churchyard and carried on up Church Lane. After a little while, the houses petered out, and he soon came to a gate which gave on to the path which continued ahead through Blaise Copse. He paused for a moment. The sense of peacefulness was almost palpable – a slight breeze stirred the leaves of the trees into the faintest rustling, and distant birdsong was the only other thing to disturb the silence. A very different atmosphere from that of only twenty-four hours earlier, he mused.
The path continued straight ahead for a while, but then began to writhe in a series of curves and bends as he penetrated deeper into the wood. Constable halted briefly to survey the spot, still cordoned off with police tape, where the body of Rex Hope had been discovered, and then proceeded on his way. Huge craggy-featured oaks flanked the path, intermingled with the smooth grey-green bark of beech trees, while occasional flashes of the silver-grey of birch lit up the more distant depths of the wood. Overall, the light faded to a dim watery green, with shafts of sunlight making an occasional foray through the canopy as far as the leaf litter underfoot. The path continued its convoluted circuit – once or twice, the inspector felt obliged to check his map to make sure that he was following the correct route as the path forked – but eventually, he found himself emerging at the end of the gigantic loop at a stile which led him once more on to the road. Contentedly, he drank in the view. Over the hedge to his left stretched farmland – nearby lay a field green with the foliage of some root crop whose identity the inspector did not feel qualified to guess at, while further away he recognised the distinctive yellow blossoms of oilseed rape making their bright splash on an area of rising ground. On the skyline, its growl muted to a soft murmur by distance, a tractor went about its business.
The chime of the church clock recalled him to himself, and he checked his watch. Good grief, he thought, where's the time gone? He carried on along the road, his route clear as he passed a group of modest but still spacious brick-built cottages, probably constructed in the early years of the twentieth century for agricultural workers on the surrounding estates. Lines of washing flapped in the breeze, the sound of high-pitched laughter came from a garden where a child's tricycle had been casually abandoned in the gateway, and neat vegetable plots peered out from behind businesslike wooden sheds. After only a couple of minutes the road resolved itself into School Lane and, with the chimneys of the Three Blind Mice visible over the roof of the library, Constable turned into the car park of the former school.
“Hello, guv.” Dave Copper looked up from the table where he was seated typing on a laptop. “I was just starting to wonder where you'd got to.”
“Getting a feel for the place, sergeant,” replied Constable. “It never does any harm to understand the ground you're covering, so I've done the full circular tour of the village. Including the spot where Mr. Hope was killed.”
“Our old friend, the locus in quo, eh, guv?” grinned Copper.
“The very same. And I've had one or two interesting conversations.”
“Oh yes?”
“One was with our former colleague, if you can call her that, Adelaide Knight. I tackled her on the subject of the beating she dealt out to Rex Hope, and she didn't deny it. In fact, she seemed rather proud of the fact that she'd sorted him out, so as far as motives go, hers seems to be past its sell-by date. But then I met the vicar.”
“Oh lord,” chuckled Copper. “He's not another one of these doddery old country clerical types, is he, all bike-clips and mothballs?”
“As it happens, sergeant, she was a very charming woman,” replied Constable severely. “And I should say pretty perceptive. But unfortunately she didn't see the murdered man on the day, so couldn't tell me much I didn't know already.”
“So nothing learned, really?”
“I don't know.” The uncertainty was audible in Constable's voice. “There may be one or two things floating around in my mind, just out of sight, but I've no idea what they are. They'll settle eventually if they actually are anything. How about you?” He looked around. “By the way, where is everybody? Last time I was here you had underlings assiduously labouring away in the background. What's happened to them?”
“Actually, guv, ran out of things for them to do for the moment. Thought there was no point them sitting around here staring at the walls, so I sent them back to the station. Looks like it's just you and me.”
“So how have you got on?”
“Not bad, sir. Come and take a look.” Copper led the way over to a large blackboard on an easel. “Miss Stein told me this was stashed away in a cupboard, so I dug it out. And I've done this.” He proudly pointed to a large-scale version of the map from the Three Blind Mice, picked out in different colours of chalk, showing the plan of Blaston Dammett and the route of the run. Clearly marked were the starting point of the race, the Sword and Dagger at the bottom end of the village, and the location of Rex Hope's body. Taped to the board alongside the map were several photographs of individuals involved in the case – a shot of a beaming Bob and Penny Farmer holding a trophy, evidently a clipping from the local newspaper taken on the occasion of a previous race, a picture from the same source of Adelaide Knight behind the bar of her pub, three tankards of her house-brewed ales before her as she was presented with some sort of award, with Sam Booker slightly out of focus in the background, and a leaflet from the Blaston Grange Spa and Hydro, open at the page which extolled their fitness regimes and which featured a picture of a smiling lycra-clad Barbara Dwyer. The final item showed a humourless Phyllis Stein gazed grainily straight at the viewer.
“Best enlargement of her driving licence photo I could manage on our copier, sir,” explained Copper. “And I've been in touch with Rex Hope's office – their HR people are emailing me a photo of him from a piece in their house journal.”
“That just leaves Mark Lowe,” observed Constable.
“All in hand, guv,” said Copper. “Miss Stein reckons she's got a picture of him from some old school photos somewhere in the library, so she's going to try to dig that out. But if not, I'll just take a shot of him on my phone when he comes in tomorrow morning.”
“You seem to have everything under control, sergeant,” said Constable.
“That's not all, sir.” Copper basked in his superior's approval. “I've just finished typing my notes, so all I've got to do is turn on my wi-fi, push a button, and they'll all come whooshing out of that printer over there.”
“I'm impressed.” Constable did not sound altogether convincing. “This means that I shall have no excuse at all not to spend my evening reading through them. You'd better get on and do it.” As Copper returned to his laptop, setting in motion the clatter and whirr of printing from the machine in the corner of the room, Constable remained looking at the contents of the board. Something was nagging at him in the back of his mind – no, he couldn't put his finger on it. Perhaps Copper's notes would strike a chord.
“Here we are, guv.” The sergeant handed over a sheaf of papers in a brown folder. “Happy reading.”
“Thank you, Copper. Well, if I'm going to be working late at home, I think I'm quite justified in calling it a day.” He looked at the wall clock at the end of the room. “Not that it's particularly early. You may as well bunk off as well. But I shall expect you here first t
hing tomorrow, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
“When did you ever know me not to be, sir?” grinned Copper.
“And we can go through whatever this mighty tome of yours throws up. You've got the key, haven't you?” A nod. “Then I shall leave you to lock up.”
As he made his way out through the foyer, Constable was hailed by the slightly disapproving tones of Phyllis Stein. “Leaving so soon, inspector?”
“I have things to do elsewhere, Miss Stein,” explained the inspector, feeling unaccountably like a chastised schoolboy. “But don't worry, Sergeant Copper will be locking everything up securely.”
“Oh, no need,” chirped Phyllis. “It's late library hours this evening, so I shall be here until seven. Not that very many people tend to come in, but it gives me a chance to catch up with my paperwork. And I haven't forgotten that I was going to look for something for your sergeant, so I can do that as well. So, I expect I shall see you tomorrow.”
*
The two detectives stood looking down at the body, or at least, that portion of it which was not hidden under the range of bookshelves which rested upon it. But enough was visible … the back of a head with its obsessively neat grey bun, a cardiganned arm ending in a hand which clutched a large dusty book … to make it plain that the corpse was that of Phyllis Stein.
“And it was all open when you arrived?” repeated Andy Constable.
“Yes, guv,” replied a still shaken Dave Copper. “Like I said, I only got here a couple of minutes ago. And the front door was unlocked, but I just thought Miss Stein must have come in early for some reason. All the lights were on, and the door to the library was open, so I was just going to put my head round it to say 'don't worry, it's only me' … and there she was. I just checked quickly to see if she was still alive, but nothing, so then I got on the phone straight away and called it in. And then you got here.”
“Everyone's on their way, I take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is not good, sergeant,” said Constable grimly. “It looks alarmingly as if someone has taken it into their head to prevent Miss Stein from telling us something.”