by Roger Keevil
“Please don’t misunderstand me, inspector,” replied Susan. “My first duty is almost always the protection of my client’s interests.” A softening of tone. “But don’t imagine, because we sit on opposite sides of the desk, that your priorities and mine are necessarily in conflict.”
“Devotion to justice trumps all, eh? Is that it?”
“Something of the sort, inspector. So, shall I expect you tomorrow?”
“I shall be there. And thank you once again.”
As he replaced the receiver, Constable turned his attention once more to the papers spread before him, the sheets of phone records becoming steadily more covered by deletions in marker pen as he worked his way through the listings and succeeded in ruling out those items which were plainly irrelevant. Comparisons were made. Timings were checked. Again and again the inspector referred to the jottings in Copper’s notebook, leafing backwards and forwards as he sought to dovetail the various pieces of testimony from the people the detectives had interviewed. Every so often he broke off to gaze unfocussed into the middle distance, evidently turning over matters in his mind. Finally, he sat back with a deep sigh, and a slow quiet smile spread across his face. After a moment he took a sip of his by now stone cold tea, grimaced, and then leant forward, placed a plain sheet of paper in front of himself, reached for a pen, and began to make notes.
The sudden ringing of his phone broke his concentration.
“Constable.”
“Hello, guv,” came the jubilant tones of his junior colleague. “Result!”
“From which I take it,” smiled Constable, “that the day has gone well.”
“Couldn’t have been better, sir. All done and dusted – five years, which wiped the smile off our villain’s face a treat, and the judge had some very nice things to say about the way the case was handled.”
“Well done you.”
“So now we’re just out of court. I wondered if you wanted me back there.”
“Actually, sergeant, I’ve been managing very well in your absence. In fact, I think we’re almost there. Just one or two little pieces to put into the jigsaw, and I’m sure we can wrap it up.”
“That’s great, sir. Er … did you hear back from SOCO?”
“Not as yet. That’s one of my jigsaw pieces, although I think I know where it’s going to fit in. But of course, if you’d like to get in touch with your friend Sergeant Singleton to hurry things along …”
“No, I’m fine, guv,” came the slightly embarrassed reply. “So what’s the plan?”
“We’re off to a funeral tomorrow morning. Pick out a sober tie, and I’ll see you here at the usual time.”
“Righty-ho, guv.” Copper disconnected.
Within seconds, the phone rang again. Constable picked the receiver up with a smile. “Forget something, sergeant?”
“Sorry, sir?” The voice was that of Una Singleton.
It took Constable a second or two to identify the caller. “Ah, Singleton. Sorry, wrong sergeant. I’ve just had Copper on the phone. I thought he was calling back about something.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, sir.”
“Not at all. In fact, I have every confidence that you aren’t going to disappoint me in the slightest. I take it you’re calling about the shotgun we left with you yesterday.”
“That’s right, sir. That, and the DNA from the hip flask. There’s an email on its way to you with the full detailed analysis of that. And as for the gun, we’ve got a result, even though prolonged immersion in a muddy pond isn’t the best way to preserve fingerprints. But there was just one set apart from the gardener. We’ve managed to lift some and match them up.”
“Only the one other person?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that person would be …?”
“Owen Elliott.”
*
The bell of the parish church of Saint Eligius was tolling mournfully as Constable’s car drew in a short distance behind the hearse in the High Street of Knaggs End.
“Just in time, guv,” remarked Dave Copper. “I thought we were going to be late for the funeral. My mum always used to tell me that I’d be late for my own.”
“Sir Richard probably didn’t get tangled up with a flock of sheep on the way,” replied Andy Constable, as the detectives watched the coffin being borne slowly through the lych gate and up the path towards the church door, followed by the black-clad figure of Lady Olivia Effingham, with James Booker-Gresham in slightly nervous attendance. “Actually, I’m quite glad we didn’t get here too early,” he added, as the cortège disappeared into the building. “I didn’t want to attract too much attention in advance. This way, everybody else is already in there, and we can tuck into the back of the church unobtrusively. I suspect there’s going to be more than enough excitement later.”
The service was short and businesslike. Two hymns were sung hesitantly by the thinly-scattered congregation, which consisted chiefly of individuals Constable recognised, together with a few unfamiliar faces who, he presumed, were locals. James mumbled a bible reading. The vicar gave a eulogy which was so general in its tone that, Constable suspected, it was drawn from a standard prepared text with the appropriate names inserted. At last, the proceedings drew to a close, and the mourners filed out of the church to stand around uncertainly in the churchyard, leaving the coffin alone on its catafalque for later interment in the Effingham family vault beneath the nave.
As the detectives emerged into the daylight, they came face-to-face with a figure formally dressed in a black business suit, topped off with a slightly incongruous black straw picture hat.
“Miss Robson-Bilkes,” Constable greeted her. “I thought I saw you in the church, although I couldn’t be certain, on account of the …” He tailed off, and gestured wordlessly to the solicitor’s headwear.
“Oh, this,” replied Susan dismissively. “I hate hats, but one is expected to preserve some of the niceties at a funeral.”
“I was hoping to run into you, so that I could check exactly what is happening now.”
“I’m just about to have a word with Lady Olivia,” replied the solicitor, “to suggest that she and the other interested parties might like to make their way over to my chambers as soon as is convenient, so that I can proceed with the reading of Sir Richard’s will.”
“Excellent. And if it is all right by you, Sergeant Copper and I will stay well in the background, and then tag along at the end. And I hope you won’t be professionally offended if I should find it necessary to interrupt your proceedings at some point.”
Susan gave the inspector a long and calculating look. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Mr. Constable?” A level gaze was the only reply. “Very well. It seems I am in your hands. But with decorum, if you please.”
“So come on, guv, spill the beans,” said Copper in an undertone, as Susan moved away to speak to the group surrounding Lady Olivia. “You wouldn’t talk about it in the car, but I reckon you’ve got it all sussed, haven’t you?”
“Without wishing to rush our fences, I do believe I have, sergeant.”
“Was it that last bit of information from Una … er … Sergeant Singleton that clinched it, sir?”
“What the young lady told me was certainly very helpful,” replied Constable. “I dare say you’ll find an opportunity to thank her on my behalf.”
“So, what’s the verdict then, guv?” persisted Copper, ducking the inspector’s amused speculations. “What was it all about? One of Sir Richard’s unstable relationships? Or was there some kind of turf war going on?”
Constable refused to be drawn. “You probably won’t believe it yourself. To be perfectly frank, I’m not absolutely sure that I do. But it is the only way that everything fits together. And as somebody very clever once pointed out, once you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Come along. Let’s go and test the theory.”
The group in the churchyard was beginning to
gravitate towards the lych gate, and the detectives followed in their wake.
Chapter 15
The atmosphere in the conference room at the chambers of Cheetham and Partners was tense. At the head of the long highly-polished table, evidently the dining table from the time when the house had been a wealthy gentleman’s residence, sat Susan Robson-Bilkes, a shiny-faced clerk who looked scarcely old enough to be out of school at her side, a portentous metal box bearing the legend ‘Effingham’ in elaborate cursive script lying before her. Ranged around the table was a ring of faces Constable knew well – the stern and upright figure of Lady Olivia Effingham, jaw set and eyes fixed ahead, seemingly determined not to recognise the presence of Sarah Wadsworth at the opposite end. Alongside Lady Olivia, James Booker-Gresham sat, fidgeting with his fingers. Further down the same side of the table, Pelham cast frequent watchful glances at Elspeth Carruthers, who held a handkerchief in one hand with which she occasionally wiped an eye, while beside her, looking most uncomfortable in an unaccustomed suit with collar and tie, sat Elias Diggory. Opposite James was the plump and perspiring figure of Simon Worcester, his eyes darting from one member of the company to another, and next to him, Julia Baverstock wore a stylish designer dress which looked more suited to a theatre matinée than a funeral. And after a slight gap, the languid figure of Sarah Wadsworth in a striking purple outfit, and in the chair next to hers, the slight frame of Owen Elliott, tension evident in every muscle. Andy Constable and Dave Copper, having followed the others into the room, took a pair of seats along the wall by the door, scarcely noticed by the rest. An edgy silence reigned.
Susan poured a glass of water from the cut-glass jug in front of her, cleared her throat, and began. “Thank you all for coming, ladies and gentlemen. As you know, I have invited you all here as being the persons who have some interest in the dispositions regarding the estate of the late Sir Richard Effingham. Does anyone have any questions at this stage?” Other than a fierce flash of eyes from Lady Olivia in the direction of the foot of the table, there was no reaction. “Very well. Then we will proceed to the reading of the will.” With a slightly theatrical gesture, she opened the box before her, drew out a substantial official-looking document, unfolded it, put on a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses, and prepared to read.
“Forgive me, Miss Robson-Bilkes.” Constable stood and made his way to the head of the table alongside Susan. “I think it may be better to interrupt you now, before you have a chance to go into the provisions of Sir Richard’s will.” Nine pairs of eyes were focussed on the inspector with varying degrees of puzzlement. “And the reason I do so is that, as executor, I believe you will be tasked with obtaining probate, and what I have to say may well complicate that process. Because, as I am sure you know, there is a provision in law which states that a criminal shall not be permitted to benefit from the crime for which they were responsible. And I think that this fact is going to make more than one person at this table feel uneasy.”
Lady Olivia spoke up. “Are you telling us, Mr. Constable, that whoever killed my husband is here, in this room?”
“I’m afraid that is exactly what I am saying, your ladyship.”
“But … you say more than one person. I … I’m not sure I understand you.”
Constable gave a small dry smile. “I can’t say I blame you, Lady Olivia. Because what we have here is an extremely complex series of events. And in reaching my conclusions, I have had to make some deductions for which I have no direct evidence, but I believe that there can be no other way in which the occurrences of the day on which Sir Richard died can have come about.” He drew a small notepad from his pocket and consulted it briefly.
“Of course, the story begins well before that day. Some of the threads of it go back fifteen years … twenty … perhaps in some cases more. But I think it is probably most appropriate to begin with the event that precipitated the final chain of events. I’m speaking of the recent death of Mrs. Baverstock’s horse ‘Last Edition’ in an accident at the training stables. That was the most obvious cause of the conflict between Sir Richard and, obviously, Mrs. Baverstock who believed that her interests had been inadequately taken care of, but also Mr. Elliott, who was blamed for the accident. But there was a third person who came to feel the backwash of the accident. Mr. Worcester was the man responsible for the administration of the stables’ affairs, and Mrs. Baverstock’s allegations also placed him in a very awkward position with Sir Richard.
“So then we turn to the events of the day in question. There were various comings and goings to Effingham Hall early on that day. Mr. Booker-Gresham and Mrs. Baverstock were involved in these, and we have a fairly clear idea of what was occurring there.” James tensed and cast a frightened glance at Constable, but relaxed slightly as it became apparent that the inspector did not intend to go into any more detail at that stage. “So we will leave those aside for now. I am more interested in the sequence of visits from the afternoon onwards. Let’s start at around 4.30pm. We know that Sir Richard had a meeting with Mr. Worcester in the library. Mr. Worcester claims that it was simply to dispose of some routine paperwork, but this doesn’t exactly tally with the words overheard by others at the time. I believe that meeting had a very different purpose. I think Sir Richard confronted his business partner with Mrs. Baverstock’s allegations over the dead horse’s insurance, or rather, lack of it. I am guessing that Mr. Worcester admitted his financial mismanagement – after all, he confessed as much to us when we interviewed him. He also told us that he asked for time to put matters right. He gave us the impression that Sir Richard was mollified by this. But what if he weren’t? What if, instead, he felt betrayed by the actions of an old school friend he had trusted, and was adamant that he would not tolerate the situation. Perhaps he might well have gone as far as threatening to contact the police with charges of fraud against Mr. Worcester. It would be entirely understandable. And that, some might think, would provide a plausible motive for Mr. Worcester to murder his partner.”
Simon’s face seemed even shinier than normal. “All right, inspector.” He mopped his forehead. “It’s true, Richard was absolutely furious about what had happened. He was beyond reasonable. And yes, he did utter some threats, but I thought that once he’d cooled down, he’d think better of them. That’s why I called him up later. I told you. But all too late, of course.”
“As you’ve said, sir.” Constable gave a small dry cough. “Miss Robson-Bilkes, I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water. Talking is rather thirsty work.” Wordlessly, Susan complied with the request and, after taking a sip, the inspector cast a ranging look around the table. “So now we move on to the events of the evening, and this is where things begin to gather pace.
“I’ve been taking a look at the telephone logs of all the people involved in this case. They provide some very instructive reading. For example, we already knew that Owen Elliott had phoned Sir Richard early in the evening. The logs confirm this – the call was timed at two minutes to seven. We have been told what was said during that call, but I suggest that the version which Mr. Elliott gave us was substantially edited. It may be a leap of faith on my part, but I now believe there was a great deal more to the conversation than Mr. Elliott has admitted, or else why would he then set out to visit Sir Richard later? I think that, during that call, Owen revealed that he knew what Sir Richard believed had up to then been a secret between himself and Owen’s mother – that Owen was Sir Richard’s illegitimate son.”
An outraged “What?” burst from the lips of Lady Olivia. After a venomous look in Owen’s direction, she clamped her lips firmly together and stared straight ahead, while all the others, after a brief shocked glance towards the individuals at opposite ends of the room, suddenly found something of great interest in the tabletop before them. Owen flushed, but did not otherwise react.
Undeterred by the interruption, Constable continued. “Yes, Owen begged to be reinstated at that time, as he told us. Sir Richard was adamant. But it seems
that he had his will to hand – quite why, we shall come on to. And in that will …” He gestured to the document lying in front of Susan Robson-Bilkes. “… and most probably in this will, since I know of no alterations, Owen is to receive a legacy of one hundred thousand pounds from the estate.” A murmured gasp of surprise, instantly stilled, rose from the company. “Sir Richard, in all probability, told him of this, but again, what if there was a threat? What if Sir Richard threatened, in the light of events, that he would seriously consider changing his will if Owen persisted? Might that not have given Owen two reasons to go to Effingham Hall that evening? One, to attempt to persuade his father to relent? Or two, to forestall his intention of removing a financial lifeline by bringing Sir Richard’s own life to an end?”
“But I … I …”
Constable lifted a hand to halt Owen’s stammerings. “Whatever may have been the contents of that telephone call, it was by no means the end of the story. Because just a few minutes later …” He took another look at his notes. “… at two minutes past seven, came the call from Sarah Wadsworth. And why did she call? I think it was to tell Sir Richard that she had got wind that he was involved with a new … lady friend.” A snort of derision from Lady Olivia. “And I think Sir Richard admitted the fact, and told her that he was ending the relationship between himself and Mrs. Wadsworth. Perhaps he tried to pacify her. Maybe by mentioning the provisions of his will. Perhaps he even asked her to visit him with the intention of smoothing matters over. Or perhaps she was so enraged that she wanted a final face-to-face confrontation so that she could have the final word. Whichever of these is true, it certainly led to Mrs. Wadsworth’s later visit. But what neither she nor Sir Richard knew was that their conversation was overheard.”
“I knew that damned man was an eavesdropper!” burst out Sarah, with an accusing glare towards Pelham. “Listening in on the call, probably. People should mind their own business instead of snooping into other people’s affairs!”