by Roger Keevil
“At eight-fifteen, Mr. Worcester drove in, past the north lodge, and parked in the stable yard on the east side of the house. He probably coasted to a halt so as not to attract attention. He came round the house via the north terrace and peered through the gap in the curtains, leaving his footprints in the flowerbed as he did so. He saw the back of Sir Richard sitting in his desk chair, entered through the french windows, as he hoped unheard, and picked up Sir Richard’s walking stick from the stand there. Sir Richard, recovering his senses from James’ botched attack, turned his chair at that moment, and Mr. Worcester delivered a single massive blow to Sir Richard’s temple. He left the way he came, taking with him the walking stick with its traces of Sir Richard’s blood, pulling the curtains and french widows together behind him. Perhaps he paused for a moment to take a swig of whisky from his hip flask - there’s DNA on the flask, and I’m prepared to wager it will show a match - but in the panic of the moment, he fumbled the flask and let it fall, to be discovered in the flower bed the following day. The hip flask bearing the engraved legend ‘O.E’ - not standing for Owen Elliott or Olivia Effingham, but for ‘Old Edmundians’ - the old boys’ association of the school which he and Sir Richard had both attended. There was no time to search for the flask in the gloom of the evening. He made for his car and drove away hurriedly at eight-twenty, driving though the back lanes and parking in the lay-by near the south lodge just before eight-thirty. He phoned the Hall - his intention was probably to ask to speak to Sir Richard, so that he could ascertain the situation. But the body had just been discovered. Mr. Worcester was told that the police were on their way, which suited him very well. All he had to do was wait for the police car to arrive and tuck in behind it, so as to arrive at the house at the same time as our colleagues, demonstrably innocent of any involvement in what had occurred.” Constable paused, and took another sip of water.
“So, inspector,” said Susan Robson-Bilkes, “if I understand you correctly, you are saying that virtually all the people around this table, with obvious exceptions …” A nod towards the Effingham Hall employees. “… have been responsible for attempts on Sir Richard’s life. Are you serious?”
Constable took a long cool look around the table. Most of those present declined to meet his gaze. “Entirely serious, Miss Robson-Bilkes.”
“But you still don’t explain who precisely was responsible for his death. Not all of them, surely? Or are you advancing the theory of some fantastic conspiracy?”
“Nothing of the kind, Miss Robson-Bilkes. This is not a 1930’s novel. Although I have to admit, when first considering the whole range of evidence, I was thoroughly confused by the number and nature of the injuries to the victim. But I am now entirely clear in my mind as to the identity of the person who actually killed Sir Richard, for which I am indebted to an extremely comprehensive report produced by the police doctor.
“We’ll take a look at the various attempts one by one. Let’s consider the attempted poisoning. It transpired that, with everything going on as it did, Sir Richard never had the chance to drink his whisky and water, as is proved by the fact that no toxins were discovered in his body. It therefore follows that, whatever Lady Olivia Effingham may have intended, she was not responsible for his death. Then there is the fact that, when Mr. Pelham discovered the body, the room was full of the smell of gas. If there is any shred of humour to be found in this situation, it is this rather farcical element. Sir Richard could never have realised that his decision to take the old domestic coal-gas plant out of commission in favour of mains gas was so prescient. Because Mrs. Wadsworth seems to have overlooked the fact that, despite all the old myths about people putting their heads into gas ovens to kill themselves, modern natural gas is completely non-poisonous.
“Then there is the attempted strangulation. Again, the doctor’s report testifies that this did not lead to Sir Richard’s death. Mr. James Booker-Gresham’s incompetence led him to botch this assumed effort to strangle his uncle, and as Sir Richard is no longer alive to testify against him, it is unlikely that any charges will be brought. On this count, that is. There may be further investigations into his other activities, but that is not a matter for discussion at this particular moment. Suffice to say that we are watching him very carefully.
“We then come to the most obvious and most likely causes of Sir Richard’s death – the dagger wound, and the shotgun blast. I should perhaps have been quicker on the uptake when I first viewed the scene of the crime, when Doctor Livermore showed me these wounds. There was relatively little bleeding, and when we spoke later he again referred to the fact that he found this puzzling. But having considered the point fully, he reached the conclusion that the lack of bleeding from the dagger wound indicated that the victim was already dead when that attack occurred. The same logic applies to the effects of the shotgun blast. Since this was self-evidently the last wound to be inflicted, it is obvious that the victim was already dead when that took place. I shall be consulting people with far greater legal knowledge than my own, but it seems to me that, whatever crime Mrs. Julia Baverstock and Mr. Owen Elliott may have committed, it certainly wasn’t murder.
“However, the medical report confirms that the blow to Sir Richard’s head brought about a massive brain haemorrhage which resulted in almost instant death. A death which would mean that the ownership of the stables would revert to the sole surviving member of the partnership, and which would bring an end to any immediate questions regarding financial mismanagement or impropriety. There would have been precious time to find a solution to the problems and avoid the consequences. A valuable motive, both in monetary and personal terms. So, with that motive in mind – with the forensic evidence of the means whereby the crime was committed – and with the technical evidence which proves that he was present at the scene at the crucial moment, I am now placing Mr. Simon Worcester under arrest for murder. Sergeant Copper, would you please take charge of Mr. Worcester.”
During the latter part of the inspector’s narrative, Simon had slumped lower and lower in his seat in the face of the inevitability of the approaching conclusion. As Constable finished, Simon lifted his head and looked around the company. “I always felt he looked down on me,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion. “Even at school. Because of who he was and who I was – just the son of a tradesman with enough money to send his son to a good school. Oh, nothing was ever said – he was far too well-bred for that. We were actually quite good friends. Perhaps I was too sensitive. And then, years later, when we met again, he offered me the position in the business. I was perfect, he said – he came from the world of horses and I came from money, so I would understand all the things he never would. Was there even some sort of implicit sneer in that? I don’t know. But it worked well over the years – until a few things went wrong. I started to gamble – well, why not use the knowledge I thought I had? But it turned out I was never as clever as I thought I was. I made losses. So I tried to cover them by gambling even bigger sums. It never works. So I started to use the money from the business, and then there was sometimes a problem with meeting commitments and paying bills, but somehow I managed to hold it all together – that is, until this business with Julia’s horse brought everything to a head. And when Richard confronted me with it, it all came pouring out – his contempt for me and my obsession with money. Barrow-boy mentality, he called it. He said he could forgive everything except a betrayal of trust. Him! With his record of behaviour! So there it was. I was faced with ruin. Prison. No way out. And so, inspector, I did exactly what you have so very cleverly worked out.” He looked again at those seated round the table. “Not that I expect any sympathy. But none of you here should be too quick to condemn me.” His voice took on a harder note. “Because you all know very well, if what Inspector Constable tells us is true, that you are all just as guilty as me. You all hated Richard. You all wanted him dead. And if it hadn’t been for me, one of you would be in my place. So you’d better take a minute to spare a though
t for yourselves.” He stood, and a bitter smile twisted his face. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll all meet again in court.”
At a nod from Constable, Copper placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder and guided him from the room. The inspector made to follow, but paused in the doorway to look back at the ring of faces, silent and with a variety of expressions ranging from shock to incredulity.
“Miss Robson-Bilkes,” he said, “it may not be up to me, but in the light of what you’ve heard, you may wish to suspend proceedings for today and seek some further guidance as to the legal standing of some of the provisions of Sir Richard’s will. And as for the remainder of you …” His eyes rested on each person in turn. “… we will be in touch with you all very soon. And I suggest that, before we do, some of you may wish to ask Miss Robson-Bilkes if she can recommend a good defence lawyer.”
The door closed behind him with an ominous finality.
*
Dave Copper dunked the digestive biscuit in his tea. He shook his head in wonderment. “I’m still trying to get my brain around it all, guv,” he said.
“In what way, sergeant?” enquired Andy Constable. He smiled. “I would have thought that, after this morning’s little session, it would all be crystal clear to you.”
Copper gave his superior a wry look. “Maybe if I had a Ph.D. in looniness, guv. You have to admit, it was all a bit mad. What, six people all deciding that they’d had enough of the victim and all making up their minds to do him in on the same day in the same place? I mean, they might have thought they all had good reason, so you could say it was odds on that the poor guy was going to get killed eventually, but it’s not exactly murder by the book, is it?”
“You have a point,” admitted Constable. “Maybe that just proves that I have the bizarre sort of brain that can visualise these weird scenarios. Which is bound to come in handy avoiding the pitfalls if I ever decide to take up a life of crime – on the other side of the desk, that is.” He took a sip of his own tea, leaned back in his chair, and stretched his arms above his head. “Goodness. That’s the first time in a long time that that didn’t actually hurt.”
“Great. Back to normal then, sir.”
Constable chuckled. “If you can call this case normal.”
“So come on then, guv. Tell all. I wish I’d been around when you figured it all out, instead of cooling my heels in court for most of the day. So what was the light-bulb moment?”
Constable considered for a few seconds. “I suppose I must have got an inkling of it when we were going around talking to everyone. There was some sort of mixture of defiance and relief in what most of them said, which must have been down to the fact that they were all convinced that they were off the hook because the gunshot was what killed Sir Richard. Certainly Owen Elliott believed that he was the killer, which is most probably why he went to pieces far more than the others. But once it was clear that it wasn’t the shot that was fatal – and really we should have all picked that up on the spot from the limited amount of bleeding, except that we were all distracted by all the other wounds – then we obviously had to look elsewhere. And ‘elsewhere’, for which the Latin word is of course alibi, turned out to be another crucial concept – all the others were on the scene apart from Simon Worcester, who had a particularly helpful alibi. What do I always say to you? Never trust an unbreakable alibi. And as for motivation, everyone else had what they thought was just and reasonable cause to hate Sir Richard, but Simon Worcester was the only one under immediate threat. As he said, ruin, and probably prison.” The inspector shrugged. “It just all fitted together.”
“I could never have done it in a hundred years, guv,” remarked Copper admiringly. “Absolute genius.”
“Yes, well, enough of that,” replied his superior gruffly. “I don’t have the time to sit around chatting, and neither do you. Don’t forget, we have some very complicated unravelling to do. I need to have a good long chat with our legal people to see what charges if any we’re going to want to bring against all the Knaggs End crowd, and then you and I are no doubt going to have to generate a frightening quantity of paperwork.”
“Terrific, guv. Your favourite part of the job.” Copper sighed. “I suppose we’d better get on with it, then. And knowing my luck, it’s going to take forever.”
“We’d better not be too long about it,” said Constable. “You never know what the next phone call is going to bring.”
The two detectives laughed and looked at the telephone on Constable’s desk. After a few moments, it began to ring.
*
THE INSPECTOR CONSTABLE MURDER MYSTERIES
MURDERER’S FETE
(First published in paperback as Fêted To Die)
Constable and Copper investigate the death of a celebrity clairvoyant at the annual garden fête at Dammett Hall
MURDER UNEARTHED
(First published in paperback as Juan Foot In The Grave)
A lucky win takes Constable and Copper on holiday to Spain, but murder soon rears its head among the British community on the Costa
DEATH SAILS IN THE SUNSET
Our detectives find themselves aboard a brand new cruise liner, but swiftly discover that some guilty secrets refuse to be buried at sea.
MURDER COMES TO CALL
A trio of cases for Constable and Copper to tackle -
in ‘Death By Chocolate’, the victim comes to a sticky end at Wally Winker’s Chocolate Factory; in ‘The Dead Of Winter’, there’s first degree murder at Harde-Knox College; and in ‘Set For Murder’, there’s a grisly shock in store at the Spanner House of Horror film studios.
MURDER MOST FREQUENT
Three more challenging cases for the detecting duo -
in ‘Murder On The Rocks’, the knives are out at the Palais de Glace restaurant;
can the show go on when ‘Death Waits In The Wings’ at the Queen’s Theatre?;
and in ‘Last Orders’, a village pub fun run takes an unexpected course.
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