by J F Straker
‘No one I knew. I’m not a regular there, you see.’ Andrew’s smile was half-hearted. ‘Come to that, I’m not a regular in any pub. Oh, yes! Bob Marston was there. He used to be our gardener. And there was a chap called Bassett. Derek pointed him out to me, said he was the local burglar. Was that right, Mr Hasted? Is he really a burglar? He looked more like a farmer to me.’
‘I haven’t come across him,’ Hasted said, dodging the question. He knew of Bassett’s criminal activities, but only by repute. ‘Can you remember what time Marston left?’
Andrew showed interest. ‘Why? Do you think he might have—’
‘No,’ Hasted said quickly. ‘I don’t. And you haven’t answered my question.’
‘I can’t,’ Andrew said. ‘I mean, I don’t remember. If he left before me I didn’t see him go. Why don’t you ask the landlord?’
Hasted nodded. ‘I suppose you’ve heard about the break-in at the Scott’s place?’
‘Yes. I went swimming there yesterday with the Holdens. Felicity was there; she told us. She didn’t think they’d taken much, though.’
‘Good,’ Hasted said. ‘Mrs Trotter tells me your father is away.’
‘Yes. He’s spending the weekend with his new woman.’ Andrew grimaced. ‘Did he tell you he has a new woman, Mr Hasted?’
His tone was bitter. Was this the root cause of his apparent ill-health? Hasted wondered. Was it more psychological than physical? It was common knowledge that he had resented his late stepmother; had he seen her as being responsible for the gulf that seemed to exist between himself and his father? And if so, did he now see the advent of the ‘new woman’, a woman perhaps younger and more attractive than Elizabeth Doyle had been, as likely to widen that gulf?
‘Yes,’ Hasted said gently, feeling compassion. ‘He told me.’
Chapter Seven
Hasted suspected that Marston was suffering from a hangover. The man was unshaven and looked unwashed, and his breath smelt of stale beer. His manner was morosely belligerent, and under the dark stubble his red face glistened with perspiration. Apprehension at his visit? Hasted wondered. The morning was warm, hut not uncomfortably so.
‘Just what are you getting at, mister?’ Marston demanded. ‘What’s it to do with you where I was Friday dinner time?’
‘Not last Friday,’ Hasted said. ‘The Friday before. The day Mrs Doyle was killed.’
‘Oh, her! Good riddance, I’d say.’ Marston’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. ‘Here! Are you thinking I might have done it? Is that it?’
‘It’s probable that the killer was a local man,’ Hasted said, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Which means we have to investigate anyone who might profit by her death, or anyone who might conceivably harbour a grudge against her. And that includes you. You worked at the Manor until she gave you the sack last November. That’s so, isn’t it?’
‘You know bloody well it is.’
‘You’ve also been heard to utter threats against her. On more than one occasion.’
‘So what? The hitch didn’t only give me the hoot, she made bloody sure I didn’t get another job around here.’ Marston swore, ‘I hated her guts.’
‘Enough to kill her?’ Hasted asked quietly.
‘Oh, no!’ Kate Marston said. She had returned from visiting her daughter shortly after Hasted had arrived. Now she sat with the baby in her arms, soothing it to keep it from crying. ‘He says things like that, sir, specially when he’s had a few, but he don’t mean it. He’s never ever hurt anyone. Not seriously, I mean. He couldn’t have killed her, honest he couldn’t.’
‘Course I couldn’t,’ Marston snapped. ‘Nor I didn’t, neither.’
‘Good!’ Hasted said. ‘In that case you’ll have no objection to telling me what you were doing that morning. Between twelve-thirty and two o’clock, say.’
‘How would I know? One day’s much the same as another. Specially when you’re on the dole,’ Marston shrugged. ‘Probably down at the boozer.’
Hasted looked at the woman, who nodded. ‘He goes there most dinner times,’ she said.
‘You were there the whole hour and a half?’
‘Of course,’ Marston said. ‘Nowhere else to go, is there?’
‘Then what would you say if I told you that someone answering your description was seen in the woods at around one o’clock? And that he was heading in the direction of Philipson’s cottage?’
‘I’d say it weren’t me,’ Marston growled.
‘Any idea who it might have been?’
‘How should I know? Tony, perhaps. He goes there a lot.’
‘Tony Bassett?’
‘Yes.’
‘What would he be doing there? Don’t tell me he was out for a stroll. Not in that weather.’
Marston shrugged. ‘Rabbiting, perhaps.’
‘Poaching, you mean?’ There was no answer, and Hasted did not press for one. ‘All right, let’s get back to you. At what time did you leave here that morning?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I do,’ Kate said. The baby had started to whimper and she cradled it more comfortably. ‘You went out about half-past eleven, Bob, to take the list back to Monica. Remember?’ For Hasted’s benefit she added, ‘Monica’s our daughter. She lives t’other end of the village.’
‘List?’ Hasted queried.
‘Yes. She does this Meals on Wheels thing, you see, and she’d left the list in a book she’d lent me. So Bob said he’d take it back. She wasn’t doing it that day—it was Cheryl Mason what was on the list—but we thought Monica might be wanting it.’
‘It was Mrs Doyle who did Meals on Wheels that Friday,’ Hasted said, welcoming the opening. ‘Not Mrs Mason.’
‘Yes, that’s right. It was, wasn’t it?’ Kate’s tired eyes brightened as she realized the implication. ‘They must have swapped. But we didn’t know that, you see. We both thought it was Cheryl Mason. Didn’t we, Bob?’
‘Yes,’ he said. It was the answer she obviously wanted, although the way his head was banging the reason was not immediately apparent. But Kate was the bright one, he could trust her judgment.
‘You see?’ Kate said triumphantly ‘It couldn’t have been Bob. I mean, if you was thinking he might have gone out looking for Mrs Doyle—well, he wouldn’t, would he? Not with it being Cheryl Mason’s name on the list.’
Hasted nodded. Unaware of the police thinking, they did not appreciate that their eagerness to avoid suspicion in one direction might lead to suspicion in another. That suited him. They would see no reason to lie.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Still, just for the record, what time did you leave the pub, Mr Marston?’
Marston shrugged. ‘I wasn’t watching the clock, was I?’
‘I can tell you what time he come home,’ Kate said. ‘Just after half-past one, it was.’ Relieved of anxiety, she smiled at Hasted. ‘Nine times out of ten his dinner’s ruined by the time he sits down. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.’
‘My wife says the same,’ Hasted said. ‘I’ve no doubt a lot of wives do.’
Monica Ebbutt, a prettier edition of her mother, was not sure whether it was on the Thursday or the Friday that her father had returned the list. However, whichever day it was he had called some time before midday, she told Hasted, and had left after about ten minutes—for the pub, she supposed. But George Grover, the landlord of the Falcon, claimed to remember that Friday well, and not only because of the murder. ‘Young Andrew Doyle was in that morning,’ Grover said. ‘and I could see he was all set to get plastered. Well, that was no skin off my nose. But Bob Marston was in too—he comes in most mornings—and that had me worried.’
‘Why?’ Hasted asked.
‘Well, Bob was in an ugly mood—something must have upset him earlier—and when he saw young Doyle he started making threatening noises about the family. Luckily the two of them were at opposite ends of the bar, so there wasn’t any close contact. All the same I was bloody glad to see the lad leave.’ Grover grimaced. �
��And then blow me if a few minutes later Marston didn’t up and leave too! That didn’t look so good.’
‘You thought he was going after him?’
‘Yes. Mind you, Bob’s not what I’d call a naturally violent man, but he can be pretty nasty when he’s had a few. And he’d had a few that morning. Still, I was wrong, wasn’t I? Nothing happened, thank the Lord!’
‘What time did Andrew Doyle leave?’ Hasted asked.
‘Ten to one. On the dot.’
‘And Marston?’
‘I told you. Three—four minutes later.’
So where, Hasted wondered, had Marston gone—what had he been up to—during the half-hour between leaving the Falcon and arriving home?
*
‘I’ll have to be going,’ Cheryl Mason said. ‘It’s getting late. I hate walking through the woods after dark.’
‘Half-past six ain’t late,’ Philipson said. ‘Plenty of daylight left.’
They lay together on the bed in the front room, with the curtains drawn against possible peeping Toms. Except for Philipson’s pants, both were nude, a towel covering Cheryl’s rounded thighs. It was a hot, sticky evening, and little beads of perspiration glistened on the woman’s skin. Flies circled the room. She waved them away when they buzzed her face, slapping at them when they landed on her body.
‘It’s gloomy in the woods any time,’ she said. ‘Why do you stay here, Philly?’ She never used his Christian name; it was too cold, too severe for their relationship, she told him. ‘I’d hate it.’
‘I told you. It suits me. I don’t fancy lots of folks around.’
‘Well, I do. I’d live in London if I could.’ She raised herself on an arm and turned to face him. His chest was hairless, his skin a dull white. There was no sign of perspiration on his lean body. ‘How’ll we manage in the winter? You won’t catch me coming here then. Not of an evening, anyway.’
He lifted the towel to stroke her thigh. ‘Come in the afternoon, then,’ he said. ‘Or mornings if you’d rather. It’s all the same to me. Just so long as you come.’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Oh no, we won’t!’ His hand stopped and gripped, and she exclaimed in protest. ‘I need you, lass, you know that. You mean a lot to me, you do. More’n you think, I reckon. So don’t you start talking about maybe.’
She felt a thrill of satisfaction at the intensity in his voice. This was the first time she had even hinted that their association might have to cease, and she would not have done so now had it not been for the note. She had feared it might he too soon. Now she knew it was not.
‘You’re sweet,’ she said. She brushed the strands of white hair from his forehead and kissed him lightly. ‘But the party’s over for tonight. Time I got dressed.’
He watched her slip the frock over her head, an anxious look on his craggy face. ‘Something wrong, is it?’ he said. ‘You going early like this?’
She examined herself in the mirror, straightening the frock, fluffing up her hair. She took a lipstick from her handbag and leaned closer to apply it. ‘Now don’t you start worrying yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s bad for your ticker.’
‘To hell with my ticker!’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
She perched herself on the bed and took his hand. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘If you must know, Philly, I’m—well, I’m scared.’
‘Scared? Scared of what?’
‘There’s talk,’ she said. ‘Oh, I know that’s not new but—well, it’s getting really bad.’
‘And that scares you? Why? I thought you didn’t care about gossip.’
‘I don’t. Not much, anyway. Not enough to stop me seeing you. But now...’ Her grip on his hand tightened. ‘It’s Ed, Philly. He says people are calling me a whore. He says if I don’t stop coming here he’ll throw me out.’
‘Ah!’ His hand returned the pressure. ‘All right, then—let him.’
‘But where would I go? I’ve no money of my own.’
‘You could come here. Live with me.’ He grinned at her. ‘Make it permanent, eh? That’d suit me fine.’
She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t, Philly. I’m fond of you, you know that, but—no! No, I couldn’t!’
He considered this. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Find yourself another place—one of them council flats, perhaps—and walk out on him. Don’t wait for him to give you the push; just walk out. And don’t worry about the cost. I’ll see you’re all right.’
‘You’re a darling,’ she said, and bent to kiss him. ‘A real darling.’
He put his arms round her and drew her down. ‘I love you, lass,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you. So you do like I said; leave the stupid bastard. Maybe, when he realizes you ain’t going back, he’ll divorce you. We could get married then.’
Involuntarily she stiffened. Oh no, she thought, not that. That would be out of the frying pan and into the fire. True, he was old and sick, he could go any time. On the other hand he might last for years, and although she was fond of him in a way she could not take that. It was one thing to visit him once or twice a week, to give him companionship, a pretence of love, a little feeble fumbling at sex. She could not say she actually enjoyed it; it was a means to an end, but it was no great hardship. But to be with him permanently for twenty-four hours a day—tending him as he grew more and more infirm—incontinent, perhaps—she could not take that. That was not what she wanted, what she had had in mind ever since that day way back in early May when she had first visited the cottage with his midday meal and had seen the way he looked at her.
She repressed a shudder, not wanting him to recognize her revulsion. ‘Not a hope, Philly,’ she said. ‘Ed would never divorce me, no matter what. It’s against what he calls his principles.’ Gently she released herself from his embrace. ‘Then where would I be?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, if I did as you suggested—left him and got a place on my own—and then, after some years you—well, I don’t want to be morbid, Philly, but it happens to all of us eventually, and—’
‘What becomes of you when I die, eh?’ he said. ‘That what you mean?’ She nodded. ‘Don’t worry about that, lass. I said I’d look after you and I will.’
‘But how could you?’ she said, wilfully misunderstanding. ‘If you weren’t here, how could you?’
‘In my will,’ he said. ‘That’s how.’
‘You mean you’d leave me some money?’
‘Not some,’ he said. ‘All of it. Every damned cent. I’ll ring my solicitor in the morning, tell him to fix it.’
She had hoped for something, perhaps even as much as half, but never in her most optimistic dreams had she imagined the lot. She wanted to shout for joy, to leap off the bed and dance. Instead she showered his face with kisses, her hand fondling his body.
‘You’re too good to me, Philly darling,’ she said between kisses. ‘Much too good. But are you sure you won’t regret it?’
‘Why should I?’ he said. ‘Can’t take it with me, can I?’
‘How about your niece?’
‘Her? I crossed her off years ago. Left it all to charity. I wasn’t having that drunken husband of hers pour my money down his filthy throat.’
‘Do they know that?’
‘No. They’re just waiting hopefully for me to snuff it.’ He chuckled throatily. ‘There’re in for a hell of a shock when I do, eh?’
She sat up and pushed back her hair. ‘Mind you, it’s not just the money,’ she said. ‘I mean, I know you’re not rich. Comfortable, perhaps, but not rich. Only, like they say, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? That’s what pleases me most. That you want me to have it.’
‘I don’t know about rich,’ he said. ‘But there’ll be a damned sight more than what that husband of yours could ever give you.’ He reached up to fondle her breast. ‘What’ll you do when I’ve gone, eh? Move to London?’
‘We won’t talk about that,’ she said. ‘It’s a long time ahe
ad, I hope.’ She kissed him again and drew away. ‘And now I’m off. Anything you need before I go?’
His grip on her breast tightened. ‘You know what I need,’ he said thickly.
‘What, again?’ She laughed. ‘You mustn’t overdo it, love. Think of your ticker.’
‘Live dangerously,’ he said. ‘That’s my motto. Always has been.’
‘Well, if that’s what you really want…’
According to the weather experts the next two or three days were likely to see the end of the heat wave, and when Cheryl finally left the cottage at just after seven o’clock the sun was temporarily hidden by cloud, but it was still a warm evening and her skin felt damp and unpleasantly sticky after the close confinement of the bedroom, so that her frock clung to her body as she walked That evening, however, physical discomfort was of minor concern. Nor did she experience her customary uneasiness as she entered the gloom of the woods and started along the narrow and overgrown track between the trees. Her mind was full of what she had achieved, of plans for the future. Philly’s suggestion that she should walk out on Ed was a non-starter; Philly would undoubtedly expect her to spend most of her time with him, and that she definitely did not want. Too much mental and physical strain. No. She would stay with Ed (the threat to throw her out had been an invention to give point to her supposed plight) and she would continue to visit Philly once or twice a week, perhaps less when the weather got bad. He could not expect her to ignore the weather. And then, when he died—well, she was only 41, and provided it happened soon she could still be young enough to enjoy his wealth. Young enough too to cement her hold on Derek’s affection. He was being difficult now because he feared for his job. But he could not really love that frump Alice, and if she had Philly’s money the job would no longer be important and he would be happy to go away with her. He had told her often enough that it was his ambition to have his own garage. Well, with Philly’s money he could. London might be too expensive; it would depend on how much Philly was worth. But at least they could move to somewhere with a bit more life than West Deering.