by Roger Keevil
“It’s what Simon Worcester said about borrowing money from the business. I thought to myself, ‘Hello, here’s a nice motive’. But you let it pass without saying anything.”
“Just because I didn’t comment at the time, sergeant, doesn’t mean that it didn’t register with me,” replied Constable. “Of course it did. But we don’t know the scale of the borrowing. It might only have been minor amounts. We don’t why it happened. For all we know, Mr. Worcester has some sort of illicit gambling habit that has led to losses which he’s had to cover by dipping into the till. That bears checking out. We don’t know if it contributed to the alleged shakiness of the company’s finances, or whether those are exacerbated by the threatened dispute over ‘Last Edition’. But don’t think for a moment that I’m not bearing all these possibilities in mind.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry, guv,” said Copper humbly. “And there’s another thing, of course. Even if he had a motive, there’s still the problem of opportunity. He was in the house earlier, he was in the house later, but he was never there at the right time.”
“So many things to consider,” smiled Constable with a sideways look at his junior colleague. “And we shall. But for the moment, rather than perusing the stock of information we have, I think we should see if we can add to it.”
“And that’s my cue to drive on, I reckon, guv.”
“Well spotted. On round to Knaggs End, and we’ll pay another call on Mrs. Wadsworth.”
The car’s wheels crunched on the gravel of the drive as the detectives pulled into Hilton House alongside Sarah Wadsworth’s sports model.
“Well, it looks as if she’s home,” said Copper. “Are you sure you’re up to this, guv,” he enquired warily. “You and the lady didn’t quite hit it off last time we were here.”
“Oh, I think I’m rather better prepared for Mrs. Wadsworth this time,” said Constable. “We know somewhat more than we did before. And I’m particularly interested in hearing what she’s got to say about the will.”
Seated in the garden room overlooking the lawns at the back of the house, Sarah regarded the detectives with barely concealed hostility. She drew a cigarette from her gold case and lit it from an adjacent onyx table lighter. There was no attempt to offer refreshments. “Well?” She sat back and blew a stream of smoke.
‘It’s like that, is it?’ thought Constable. ‘Kid gloves off, then.’ “Tell me, Mrs. Wadsworth, exactly how conversant were you with the provisions of Sir Richard Effingham’s will?”
Sarah looked momentarily disconcerted, but recovered herself swiftly. Her lips smiled, but no warmth reached her eyes. “That stupid man thought money was the answer to everything,” she retorted waspishly. “As if a hundred thousand pounds would pay for everything I’ve given him over fifteen years.”
Constable was startled by her sudden vehemence. “You make it sound, Mrs. Wadsworth, as if your relationship with Sir Richard was based on financial considerations. And forgive me, but some people might say that there is a word for that.”
“Oh, don’t be so middle-class and ridiculous, inspector,” snapped Sarah. She seemed to realise the impression she was creating, and softened slightly. “There was nothing of the … let’s be refined and call it ‘kept woman’ … about our relationship. When it started out, he did genuinely sweep me off my feet. He was a very glamorous man then, and I was very fond of him in those days. Yes … in fact, you could probably say I loved him. And even when I got to know his nature in time, I could even overlook his little … excursions.” She gave a soft and bitter laugh. “I dare say I never knew the half of it. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’d gone around scattering by-blows all over the county. Probably more than one. But I’m not like that damned wife of his, prepared to put up with anything.”
“No?” encouraged the inspector, unwilling to disrupt the flow.
“Not when it started to become blatant. I knew perfectly well he had another woman. And at his age, that sort of thing starts to look absurd.”
“So you elected to have it out with him face to face and end it all. And you decided to visit him at his house.”
“Yes. Look, Mr. Constable, I’ve already told you all this.”
“Yes, Mrs. Wadsworth,” countered Constable, “But you neglected to mention the will when we talked before. I should have thought you might have done so. Unless, of course, it slipped your mind. In the heat of the conversation.”
“Of course not. I told Richard how things stood. He showed me the will, and I just told him I didn’t want his wretched money. He didn’t seem to care, which I am prepared to admit made me seethe even more.” A pause as if recollecting the moment. “So I set fire to the damned will and walked out.”
“Leaving the way you came? Through the house?”
“No, I did not, inspector. I had no intention of being looked down on by Pelham, who for all I know was lurking outside the door listening to everything that went on. So I went out of the french windows. Why? What does it matter? You know I left, and you know what time I got back here, so if you are trying to place me in the house when Richard was shot, you are wasting your time.”
Constable leaned forward. “That’s an extremely smart cigarette case you have there, Mrs. Wadsworth,” he remarked out of the blue. “Might I take a closer look at it?”
“What?” Sarah seemed utterly bewildered at the abrupt change of tack. “Yes, if you wish.” She handed it across.
Constable examined it. “That’s a very elegant design. Was it a gift, may I ask?”
“Yes, as it happens, it was.” Sarah continued to look puzzled.
To Copper’s surprise, Constable did not pursue the matter, and suddenly stood. “I think that’s all I need to know for the moment, Mrs. Wadsworth. But I expect we’ll be speaking again in due course.” Copper thought he caught a hint of a threat in the inspector’s words. “No sign of Mr. Wadsworth, I take it,” remarked Constable as he headed for the front door. “I wonder if I’ll ever get to meet him. Perhaps at Sir Richard’s funeral the day after tomorrow.”
“I think it unlikely, Mr. Constable,” retorted Sarah icily. “My husband is on the way to Tokyo. He won’t be back for a fortnight.”
“So you will have to grieve alone,” said Constable lightly. He turned and descended the front steps, Copper in his wake.
*
“So what was all that about, guv?” enquired the puzzled sergeant, as the two detectives seated themselves once more in the saloon bar of the Four Horseshoes, Dave Copper having accepted with alacrity his superior’s suggestion of a break for lunch.
“What in particular?” queried Andy Constable. “The will? The husband? The funeral?”
“The cigarette case. Okay, so it was a present. We can put two and two together and guess that it was a gift from Sir Richard, but that’s hardly surprising, is it? Isn’t that the sort of thing the rich man might well give to the kept woman, to use Mrs. Wadsworth’s own words?”
“Of course it is, sergeant. But you’re being unusually slow on the uptake, if I may say so. She’s told us everything we need to know about a couple of the items that were found at the scene of the murder. She said she set fire to the will. Fine. Now we know who did that. And she set fire to it with …?”
“Of course! Sorry, guv. Being a bit thick. With the matching cigarette lighter, which she either dropped by accident or chucked down as another gesture of rejection. And then, as she said, she walked out.”
“Hmmm. I wonder if that’s all she did.”
“Is that another one for your quiet moments of reflection, guv?” grinned Copper.
“You know me too well,” said Constable with an answering smile. “But for now, we shall turn from that and instead take another look at the bar menu of this excellent hostelry. Where,” he added, “we shall be in danger of becoming regulars if we can’t resolve this case before too long.”
Copper perused the list of fare. “‘Local specialities’, they reckon, guv,” he remarked. “So what on e
arth is Old Spot Stroganoff when it’s at home?” he asked. “Doesn’t sound too local to me.”
“And that is because you are pure townie,” responded Constable. “Never heard of Gloucester Old Spot pigs? As tasty a piece of pork as you’ll find, although I’ll grant you, more Mercia than Wessex, but let’s not be picky. And Stroganoff is originally Russian, so also not strictly local, but with a bit of luck the other ingredients are. Onions, mushrooms, a slosh of cream – sounds good to me.”
“I think I’ll settle for the mutton hotpot,” said Copper. “It looks a bit more down-to-earth, suitable for those of us in the lower ranks. I’m happy to watch you enjoy your exotic foreign food from a safe distance. What was it somebody said about ‘lying in the gutter but looking at the stars’?”
Constable smilingly shook his head in amazement. “Sergeant, you never cease to amaze me. I never had you down as a fan of Oscar Wilde. However, as this is probably neither the time nor the place for a philosophical discussion, I suggest you take yourself up to the bar and place the order. And don’t forget to get a receipt.”
As the two detectives finished their meal, Copper became aware that his superior had fallen silent. “Something on your mind, guv? You’re doing that ‘quiet moment of reflection’ thing, and you usually get me out of the way before you start on that.”
The inspector smiled faintly. “Sorry about that. No, I was just musing over something Mrs. Wadsworth let drop during one of her little rants. It slipped past me at the time, but now I’m thinking it’s time to go and put one and one together to make three.” He put down his cutlery, drained the last few drops of shandy in his glass, and stood. “Come on – let’s go and pay Owen Elliott a visit.” He headed towards the door, a somewhat bemused-looking Dave Copper in his wake.
When he answered the door of his flat, Owen Elliott looked if anything even more morose and dishevelled than on the detectives’ first visit. Registering the identity of his callers with dull eyes, he stood back wordlessly to allow them to enter and then climbed the stairs wearily to his sitting room, where he slumped into his previous position on the sagging beanbag.
The police officers exchanged mute glances as they sat uninvited on the sofa. “Mr. Elliott,” began Constable, “we’ve been learning rather more about the late Sir Richard Effingham since we last came to see you.”
“Yeah,” replied Owen, “looks like we all learned quite a lot about him.”
The inspector was not to be deflected. “You told us about your recent run-in with Sir Richard. What you didn’t tell us about was all the background. We’ve had to hear about that from an entirely different source. About how you were always to be found around the horses up at Sir Richard’s house. How he virtually took you under his wing. He had you apprenticed as a jockey. You were, in effect, his protégé. More, in fact, than just an ordinary local boy from the village with a love of horses.”
“So?” Owen’s face wore a mixture of wariness and defiance.
“One of the things we have come to realise about Sir Richard,” continued Constable calmly, “was that he had a considerable fondness for female companionship. We’ve spoken to someone who described him as very glamorous when he was younger. And that same person threw up the possibility that, although Sir Richard and Lady Olivia had no children of their own, there might be other … offspring. Outside the family. Would you have any thoughts on that?”
After the heavy silence which descended on the room for several long moments, Owen suddenly became animated. He sprang to his feet and began to pace. “How could he do it to me?” he cried in anguish, as Copper looked on in amazement. “My own father!”
“You knew?” asked Constable softly.
“Yes,” said Owen. “My mother told me just before she died.” He subsided as suddenly as he had begun. “I’d no idea. God, what an idiot I was. The squire’s son and the village girl. Just like some trashy story.” A bitter laugh. “I’m surprised he didn’t put it into one of his own books. My mother made me promise I’d never say a word. Swore me to secrecy. I think she was ashamed, although these days, who cares? But then I knew why he’d taken an interest and arranged for me to be apprenticed and everything, and then taken me on to ride for his own stable. I was his own little private secret. The son he couldn’t have. He must have felt so good about himself.”
“And until recently, nothing happened to mar that relationship. I mean, between employer and employee, naturally. I don’t mean to imply anything else. But then, of course, came the incident with ‘Last Edition’.”
“That’s right.” Owen had calmed down considerably. “And I told him over and over again that the accident wasn’t my fault, and there were other people to back me up, but it didn’t make any difference. He said he’d trained me better than that. I said to him, ‘How am I supposed to earn a living now?’, but he refused to listen.”
“And nevertheless, you went to see him again on the day of his death. With a view to having it out with him? Revealing what you knew?”
“Something like that. But I never got there in time, did I?”
“As you’ve told us, Mr. Elliott,” said Constable. “And since you have a witness to the time you arrived at the front door, the facts seem all very clear from that point onwards.” He stood. “I don’t know if you’ve been informed, but Sir Richard’s funeral is being arranged for the day after tomorrow. I imagine you’ll wish to attend. I believe Sir Richard’s will is likely to be read afterwards.”
Owen seemed uncertain. Something indefinable flared in his eyes. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I think you probably should,” said Constable. “Who knows – we may all learn more on that day.” With that gnomic utterance, he turned and headed down the stairs, Copper following behind.
*
“That came out of nowhere,” said Dave Copper in admiration. “How did you figure that out?”
“A bit of this, a bit of that,” replied Andy Constable modestly. “It just kept nagging at me, just out of sight – why did Sir Richard act so generously towards Owen? Men in that position are probably more likely to be irritated by a young lad hanging about under their feet than to take an interest in his progress. And knowing what we know about Sir Richard’s predilection for the ladies, there was obviously nothing untoward going on, so there had to be another reason. And when Mrs. Wadsworth made that remark about Sir Richard scattering by-blows around the place – and there’s a nice old-fashioned expression, if you like – suddenly it all clicked. So I took a guess. Luckily, it paid off.”
“Does it change our thinking, guv? I mean, it certainly accounts for the fact that Owen gets a mention in the will. And he does go on a lot about being on his uppers. It’s another motive.”
“Although we’re still not certain that the will we’ve seen was the ultimate version, remember,” countered Constable.
“But then we’ve still got the problem that Owen didn’t come on the scene until after Sir Richard had been shot. So we’ve got no evidence that he knew about the will.”
“But he did phone earlier. And I would give a great deal to know the contents of that conversation.”
“Well, unless Mr. Pelham was very conveniently eavesdropping on the call, I can’t see how you’re going to get any further with that, guv,” said Copper. “So what next?”
“As we’re on the subject of beneficiaries of the will,” said Constable, “there’s still one we have to catch up with. So back to the car, I think, up to Effingham Hall, and we’ll see if young Master James has returned from his wanderings.”
The grey sports car which the detectives had previously seen parked in the stable yard now stood at the foot of the steps to the front door.
“Our Mr. Booker-Gresham has returned to the fold,” remarked Constable, as he pulled in alongside. “Let’s see if Mr. Pelham can winkle him out.”
The detectives had only been waiting in the morning room for a matter of moments when the door opened and James came hesitantly into the ro
om. “Pelham said you wanted to see me, inspector.”
“That’s right, Mr. Booker-Gresham,” said Constable heartily. “We’ve got one or two things to clear up. Shall we sit down?”
Taking a seat, James looked at the inspector nervously. “What is it you want, exactly? I’ve told you everything I know.”
Constable chose not to reply directly. “You had an urgent meeting with your employers today, I think, sir. And you work in one of the financial houses in the City of London, don’t you? I do hope it wasn’t some sort of international financial crisis. Should we all be putting our savings into gold?” He raised his eyebrows and smiled affably.
James managed a feeble answering smile. “Oh, nothing at all like that, inspector.”
“So, perhaps something more personal, was it? One doesn’t like to pry …” The inspector’s voice hardened. “Unless it has a bearing on the murder I’m investigating. Does it?” James sat regarding Constable as a rabbit would a snake. “One of the items involved in that murder is, of course, a rather valuable oriental dagger which seems to have had a habit of appearing and disappearing in something of an unaccountable fashion. And here’s a strange coincidence, Mr. Booker-Gresham. On the day of Sir Richard’s death, you had left the house, and lo!, the dagger had gone missing from its usual place. You returned later, and so, mysteriously at some point, did the dagger. Not, then, in its usual place, but in a far more gruesome location – buried up to the hilt in the lifeless body of Sir Richard. All very melodramatic, sir. Now tell me, if you were a suspicious person, wouldn’t you be inclined to conclude that there was a connection between these events?” Constable leaned back and waited.
James licked his lips. “Oh, you might as well know everything,” he blurted. “It sounds as if you do anyway. Yes, it’s true – I’m in a bit of a hole financially. I had some trades that went wrong. I wasn’t doing anything dishonest – I just took the wrong side of a bet. It happens. The trouble was, I was dealing in sums I wasn’t authorised to. So I tried to make it up before anyone found out, and I damn near got there. Just one or two more deals, and I’d have been home and dry, and nobody would have been any the wiser. But for some reason, I couldn’t manage to get that last little distance. And I was getting steadily more desperate, because the longer it all went on, the more likely it was that somebody would realise what I’d been doing.”