by Roger Keevil
“Row about the book?” echoed Constable, intrigued. “Tell me more.”
“You don’t know? Well, I am surprised. It was quite the talking point around here. But as nothing ever came of it, I suppose it never got much further than the village.”
“Exactly what are we talking about?” pursued the inspector.
Ed leaned back, seemingly prepared to enjoy himself. “It was his big best-seller – ‘Murder For The Defence’. You know it?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Well, in that, there’s a lawyer who, it turns out, is up to her neck in corruption. Crime families, and so on. All sorts of fiddles she’s got going on, and there’s an investigation under way, and somebody gets killed, and in the end they find out that she’s the one who did it.”
‘Thanks for the spoiler alert,’ thought Constable. “But I don’t see …”
“And the thing was, Susan got it into her head that Sir Richard had based the character on her. You know, age and appearance and what-have-you. Mind you, she wasn’t the only one who thought it. You know what they say, write what you know, and her firm had been handling Sir Richard’s family affairs for years, and there were so many things in the book which looked as if they were referring to her. So she got hopping mad, even though Sir Richard denied it and put out all sorts of disclaimers and said it was all coincidence, but there was talk of her suing him for libel and everything.”
Constable’s eyebrows rose. “It sounds as if things got rather lively. So then what happened?”
“Well … nothing really.” Ed seemed conscious of the anticlimax. “It all got smoothed over somehow, by all accounts. I don’t exactly know how, and maybe not quite in the way she might have wished, knowing what some people have said about Sir Richard’s liking for the ladies, but that could well have been just tittle-tattle. But there was certainly a bit of talk about the nice new car she got soon afterwards, and she did end up with the leg of one of the horses Sir Richard had in training.”
“A leg of …? Sorry, Mr. Short, I’m not with you.” Constable directed a baffled glance at Copper.
“I think he means a stake in the ownership of the horse, sir,” explained the sergeant. “It entitles you to a share of its winnings. Sounds to me as if it would have been some sort of peace offering. As opposed to a horse’s head in the foot of the bed, guv, which means something quite different.”
“I have a feeling we’re rather straying from the point, gentlemen,” said Constable, a touch of exasperation plain in his voice. “But I’m interested in one thing you say, Mr. Short, which is the fact that this Mrs. Robson-Bilkes …”
“Miss.”
“ … this Miss Robson-Bilkes may well have some knowledge of the Effingham family’s affairs. I think that may well be where we next go seeking information.”
Chapter 8
The visit to the offices of the law firm of Cheetham and Partners, located in a Georgian town house on the opposite side of the High Street, was fruitless. The door remained firmly shut, the bell remained unanswered. A brass plate announced that clients would only be seen by arrangement. A telephone number was helpfully provided.
“Part-timers, obviously, guv,” remarked Dave Copper. “How nice it must be to live in the country, where nothing much goes on except by appointment.”
“Unless it happens to be murder, of course,” returned Andy Constable drily. “Which tends to throw something of a spanner in the works. Well, take a note of the phone number, and we’ll try to track down the lady later. In the meantime, I think it’s a case of completing the circuit and returning to Effingham Hall.”
As the car came to a halt at the foot of the front door steps, the detectives could see a figure engaged in trimming a group of shrubs to the right, adjacent to the corner of the house. Tweed cap pushed to the back of his head, sleeves on the collarless grey shirt rolled to the elbows, and brown corduroy trousers above a pair of sturdy scuffed boots, it was not hard to deduce that here was the gardener who had assisted the unfortunate Inspector Fletcher in his encounter with Lady Effingham’s horse. The figure, who it was plain might well never see eighty again, straightened with a slight groan as Constable approached.
“Good afternoon.” Constable delved into his memory. “It’s Mr. Diggory, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, sir.” Milky blue eyes regarded the detectives out of a seamed weather-beaten face. The accent was a ringing testimony to the gardener’s local roots. “And you’ll be the police gentlemen that Mr. Pelham said were going round asking questions.”
“We are indeed, sir. I’m Inspector Constable – this is Sergeant Copper – and if we’re not tearing you away from your work, we’d like a word.”
“I don’t know as I can tell you much, being as I wasn’t here last night,” said Diggory, laying aside his hedge clippers and seeming more than ready to take advantage of a distraction from his duties. “I was away up at home. But you’re welcome to ask away, anything you want. In fact, I’m more or less done here, so if you can hold on a minute, I’ll just finish clearing up, and then we can go round to my little snug and I can rest my old bones over a cup of tea.” He gathered up the sheet of clippings from beneath the bush he had been trimming and bundled it into his wheelbarrow, together with his shears. “It’s this way, gents.” He rounded the corner of the house and plunged into a thick shrubbery, dense with rhododendrons and all manner of evergreens, following a gravel path which snaked through the undergrowth. A branch of the path led off to the right and seemed to continue in the direction of the park.
“That must be the path that leads down to the village, guv,” pointed out Copper. “The one that Mrs. Wadsworth was talking about.”
“That’s right, sir,” agreed Diggory over his shoulder. “Comes out the other side of here, down through the fern garden, and then straight across the park. Cuts off the big loop of the drive, so it’s much quicker if you just want to get down to the village. I always go down that way on my bike. ‘Course, it’s not so easy coming back up at my age.” He gave a slightly wheezy cackle.
“Is that the only route?”
“That’s right.”
“Hold on, guv.” Copper stopped abruptly. He lowered his voice. “If that’s the only way to the village, we’ve got some contradictions. You remember Sarah Wadsworth told us she didn’t see anyone else on her way to and from the village, and Owen Elliott said much the same thing. But with the timings we’ve got, they should by rights have been in the same place at the same time. They should have come face to face with one another. So it looks as if one of them isn’t telling us the truth. The question is, which one?”
“You may be on to something, sergeant,” agreed Constable in similarly lowered tones. “So, Mr. Diggory,” he said aloud, “you’re telling us that anyone using this path would be bound to see another person taking the same route?”
“Ah,” said Diggory. “No, I didn’t say that.”
“Then … then I’m confused, Mr. Diggory. What exactly are you saying?”
The gardener put down the wheelbarrow handles. “It’s easy, inspector. Look for yourself. This old shrubbery’s a bit of a maze. You can see, there’s that path there we’ve just come past, but there’s another one just round the corner here that we’re just about to come to. And then, when you get down to the fernery, there’s the direct path round the edge, or there’s the little winding one that wriggles through, or there’s the steps that go down through the grotto.” He chuckled. “That one was always a favourite with the kids. I remember when Master James was young, he always used to hide in there and then pop out to try to make people jump. Bit of a rascal, he always was.”
“So, in fact, there is no reason why two people coming and going at the same time would necessarily be aware of one another?”
“No, none at all. Course, you’ve also got the little drive which goes round outside the fernery to the stable yard, for taking the cars round to the back. Used to be for the carriages in the old da
ys, of course. Why, is it important?”
“No, not in the slightest, Mr. Diggory,” replied Constable airily. And in an aside to Copper, “Another theory crashes to the ground.”
Diggory opened a door, half concealed by foliage, in the tall brick wall which butted up to the side of the house, and pushed his barrow through into the cobbled yard which lay beyond, empty save for a graphite-grey sports car of the type which was virtually part of the uniform for smart young men in the City. Diggory held open a door which led into an outbuilding, dimly-lit through cobwebbed windows, where racks of gardening tools hung on the walls alongside dusty shelves which housed a miscellany of rusty tins with scrawled labels, battered cardboard boxes, and anonymous paper packets. “Here’s my little cubby-hole. Sit yourselves down, gents,” he said, indicating an ancient-looking wooden settle against one wall. “Now, I’m going to have meself a cup of tea. Thirsty work, gardening.” He switched on a battered electric kettle and plopped a tea bag into an enamel mug which had clearly seen better days, adding milk and sugar at the same time. “I could do you one if you like. I got some more mugs here somewhere.”
The detectives exchanged dubious looks. “It’s very kind of you, Mr. Diggory,” said Constable. “But we wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Ah well, suit yourselves,” said Diggory, pouring the boiling water on to the brew and stirring with a shaky hand. He hung his cap on a hook, lowered himself into an elderly fireside chair under the window, and looked expectantly at the detectives. “So, gents, what is it you want to know?”
“I suppose we’d better start with your full name, sir,” said Constable. “And I hope you won’t mind if Sergeant Copper here makes some notes.”
“You go right ahead, boy,” said Diggory. “I ain’t got nothing to hide. And as for the name, it’s Elias Jeroboam Diggory. Want me to spell that for you?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, sir,” replied Copper, concealing a smile. “I think I can manage that, even though I don’t run across too many Elias Jeroboams in the average day.”
“Proper god-fearing woman, my mother,” said Diggory. “My old dad wanted me called Joe after him, but he didn’t get a look-in. Not with none of us. Youngest of six, I was. All gone now, of course.”
“And you’ve worked here for some time?”
“Oh, donkey’s years. Practically all my life. My old dad was a gardener here too before the war, so really it’s a bit of a family business. ‘Course, then there was a whole bunch of staff here, but now there’s just me out here in the gardens. I keep ‘em up as best I can, and Sir Richard and her ladyship have always seemed happy enough. I mean, the wages ain’t so much, but Sir Richard lets me live in the little North Lodge down the back drive, so I’ve never had to pay a penny rent. He was good like that.”
Constable resumed the questioning. “What we’re after, Mr. Diggory, is whatever additional information we can gather about the events of yesterday.”
“Ah, well, like I said, I wasn’t there when they had all the trouble, so I don’t really know what you want me to tell you. You see I don’t really come into the house very often – just into the kitchen sometimes, when Mrs. Carruthers does me a cup of tea or a bit of snap, and then she always makes sure I take my boots off. She’s a very particular woman, is our Mrs. Carruthers. Nice, though.”
“I was thinking more about what happened earlier on in the day. Perhaps you can help us with that. Were you out and about in the grounds at all?”
“Most of the day.”
“And there were some comings and goings at various times, I think?” coaxed Constable.
“Oh, plenty of them,” agreed Diggory, taking a long slurp of tea.
“Could you perhaps talk us through them?”
“Well, as best I can. See, I wasn’t here all the time, ‘cos a couple of mornings a week I don’t get up here first thing because I’m working on my vegetable patch at my lodge. I got some beautiful carrots coming on. That’s one of the best things about her ladyship keeping Punter here in the old stables, you know – plenty of fertiliser for my garden. Mind you, having said that, I was down here pretty early on, but that was only to get a barrow-load of muck off the heap, and then I had to trundle it all the way back home, which don’t seem so bad if you’re driving, but that last bit up to the lodge is steeper than it looks. So anyway, I did that, and then I forked it into the spare patch where I’m doing my next bit of planting …”
“But you did eventually come to the vicinity of the Hall itself?” interrupted Constable, eager to move the gardener on from his horticultural ramblings.
“Ah, well, hold your horses. I was just coming to that,” said Diggory placidly, declining to be hurried. “I was coming back to the Hall with my barrow when I sees Master James go past in his car.”
“Any idea what time that would have been?” enquired Copper.
“Oh, must have been about eleven o’clock, I suppose,” replied the gardener.
“And that was up the drive towards your North Lodge? Not the front drive?”
“That’s right. He usually keeps his car in the stable yard round here at the back of the house, see. It’s that one out there now. And wherever he parks it, it’s always in the way. No consideration. Flashy thing, it is, with its tinted windows and all, but then, they say that’s the way it is with these so-called smart city boys. If you ain’t got the right car, you get looked down on.”
“It sounds, Mr. Diggory,” resumed Constable with a slight smile, “that you don’t altogether approve of Mr. Booker-Gresham.”
“Ah, well, not for me to pass judgement on members of the family,” said Diggory, perhaps conscious of a slight indiscretion. He stretched his neck to peer out of the window, as if to ensure that he could not be overheard. “But if you want the honest truth, I ain’t got a lot of time for him. I mean, he was all right as a boy, but they don’t always grow up the way you’d want, do they?” He smiled fondly. “Now that young Mr. Elliott – he’s different.”
“Owen Elliott? Really?”
“Oh, yes. Chalk and cheese. You couldn’t meet a nicer lad. He’s exactly the same as when he was a boy in the village.”
“You knew him when he was young?”
“‘Course. He was always up around the stables when he was a kid. He always had this thing about horses – he just seemed to get on with them. You know, had the knack. And Sir Richard never seemed to mind. In fact, he encouraged him, and I suppose it was only natural that it led on to him becoming a jockey. He had him apprenticed and all. And even these days, it’s nothing unusual for him to pop up here to see us, just to say hello and bring Punter an apple or something. Well, I say ‘is’. I mean ‘was’ really, ‘cos we ain’t seen a lot of him since all the trouble. I s’pose you know all about that – you know, with ‘Last Edition’ and everything?”
“We have heard the story,” said Constable.
“All very sad, that,” said Diggory with a sorrowful shake of the head. “But it made him a bit of a … what is it they say … ‘Persona non grata’? … with Sir Richard.”
“That’s what we gather,” said Constable, slightly surprised by the gardener’s venture into Latin legalese. “Which brings us to Sir Richard himself. Did you see him at all during the day?”
“Oh, that wouldn’t have been until later. Afternoon, it was … just after lunchtime, I reckon.” He screwed up his eyes in recollection. “Yes, that’d be about right. I was getting some weed out of the lily pond in the west garden, and Sir Richard came round from the front of the house with Mrs. Baverstock, and they were having a right old to-do. They didn’t notice me because they were up above me on the west terrace, see, and I kept my head down, but I could hear what they were saying plain as plain.”
“And what was the exact nature of this ‘to-do’, Mr. Diggory?” asked Constable.
“Well, as it happens, it was all about ‘Last Edition’. She was the owner, see, and she must have had great hopes for it, specia
lly after it won the big race. Everybody was going on about it down the pub in the village afterwards, and saying as how that horse must be worth a mint now. In fact, I don’t mind admitting, it did me a bit of good, ‘cos I had a couple of quid on it myself, thank you very much. All over the papers, it was, and then before you could turn round, it was all over the papers again after it died.”
“And this was what she and Sir Richard were talking about?”
“Shouting, more like. And she was laying all the blame on him. Poor old Sir Richard could hardly get a word in edgeways, and that wasn’t like him at all. But she said it was all his fault because he should have been keeping proper control over everything that went on up at the training stables, and she wasn’t at all sure that there hadn’t been something dodgy going on. She said that the horse was worth millions, specially after the Five Thousand Guineas win, and why hadn’t the insurance been kept up to date on it, and that she’d make sure he paid.”
“What was Sir Richard’s reaction to all this?”
“Well, he tried to calm her down as best he could. In fact, he said, why didn’t they leave it for now, because they obviously weren’t getting anywhere, and he’d want to check up on a few things, so why didn’t she come back later in the evening so as to talk it all through over dinner?”
“And she agreed? Well, she must have done so, because we know that she did indeed come back in the evening.”
“Ah, well, you’d know that better than me. All I know is, she went off after that, and I caught a glimpse of her face when she was leaving, and she looked to me as if she was still in a right rage.”
“And Sir Richard?”
“He just watched her go, and then he went off down the park with Sheba. And I think that’s it … I don’t think I saw him at all after that.”
Constable paused for a moment to digest the new information. “You said there were plenty of comings and goings during the day, Mr. Diggory. Can you remember anything in particular that struck you about any of those?”