Sergeant Feather looked hard at his boss. He never discounted his hunches, because he saw those eyes registering, those ears almost twitching as they noticed the nuances in the most casual conversation, nuances which Parrish would never be able to explicate in words.
‘What did you think was up?’ asked Sergeant Feather at last.
‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ said Parrish grumpily. ‘But this damnfool radio documentary business is the obvious thing, isn’t it? I imagine towns get like this whenever there’s a royal visit – everyone pushing themselves forward to shake the royal paw. Same sort of thing this, in a way – same sort of opportunity to make an ass of yourself in a very public way.’
‘You could be right,’ said Feather. ‘Or there could be something else as well, connected, you know. In a place like this everything gets all caught up with everything else. I mean, like you can still trace the after-effects of quarrels and upsets from years back if you try. And the infighting can get pretty fierce.’
‘Exactly what I tried to tell Mrs Withens,’ said Parrish, ‘only the daft old body wouldn’t listen. You know how some of these local big-wigs get such an inflated idea of – ’
But he was interrupted in mid-les-majesty by the door of his office being flung open, and the gangling figure of the vicar appearing in the entrance, with the apologetic face of Sergeant Underwood visible somewhere among the ill-co-ordinated limbs, obviously wanting to explain that she’d tried to stop him but hadn’t been able to. The vicar jumbled himself into the room, pointedly shut the door on Sergeant Underwood, and came forward to confront Inspector Parrish.
The Reverend Garston Tamville-Bence had come to Twytching something over five and forty years before, at about the time when the roaring twenties were subsiding into the hungry thirties, both eras making about the same impression on the sluggish current of Twytching life. At the time of his arrival he had an energetic little wife, rather pretty than otherwise, and before very long two or three children. He was not a very dynamic vicar – thank goodness, everybody said, because the last thing one wanted in Twytching was one of this new breed of clergymen with social consciences paraded for everybody’s admiration. His manner and accent went down well too, being undoubtedly aristocratic: his speech – jerky, spluttery and almost impossible to understand at moments of stress – lent a particular lustre to his early sermons. After a time people began to take these things for granted, and in fact got thoroughly used to him, which was just as well, for though his wife and children disappeared with a travelling encyclopedia salesman shortly before war broke out, the vicar remained, and had, with the years, mellowed into eccentricity, and then into . . . well, into madness some people said. But most were too respectful to put a name to it, and tipped their hats to him, as in the old days, and stayed away from his church, as in the old days. With a dwindling flock, he occasionally practised exorcism, talking in tongues, and impromptu seances. Luckily none of his superiors in the Anglican Church noticed, or, if they noticed, thought it mattered, and everyone except Mrs Withens was pleased about that. Twytching did not go along with the national craze of change for change’s sake.
‘This business, Inspector,’ chortled the vicar, spraying Parrish’s desk and fixing his eye on some point in the ceiling. ‘This business, now. God’s hand is in it somewhere. Yes, it’s there somewhere, you know. If we could but discern it.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Vicar,’ said Parrish equably. ‘Very glad indeed.’
‘Evil is stalking the village, Inspector. Stalking! I said so last night. Publicly. But let Satan beware! God’s hand is waiting, upraised, ready to strike!’
‘I’ve no doubt you’re right, Vicar,’ said Parrish, ‘and it’s very comforting to know.’
‘Or perhaps it has struck! Eh? EH? Perhaps it has even now - yea, while we slept - struck!’
‘Well, sir, evil is our business in a manner of speaking, and we’re certainly doing our best to get to the bottom of this whole thing. And since we are rather – ’
‘Wrong, Inspector, wrong! Evil is my business. Crime is your business, but evil is my business. And my Lord’s!’
‘Well, yes, Vicar, but – ’
‘Murder is yours, but what goes before murder perhaps . . .’ The Reverend Tamville-Bence was forced to pause in mid-sentence by a load of spittle which he could only get rid of by swallowing.
‘Such as?’ prompted Parrish.
‘Back-biting, slandering, love of position and pomp and power, and the glories of this world . . .’
‘Yes, well-’
‘Letter-writing.’
‘Letter-writing?’ said Parrish, interested at last.
‘The distribution of vile slanders through the postal service of our Earthly Lady the Queen, the committing to paper of lies and filth, of lewdness and harlotries . . .’
‘And such letters – ?’
‘Have been sent,’ said the Reverend Tamville-Bence, jerking his face down from contemplation of the dirty ceiling and looking Parrish straight in the face, as if to make sure he was being taken seriously. ‘Stamped and addressed. Sealed and delivered.’ He lowered his voice mysteriously. ‘Herein lies the evil that has stalked the land. Herein can be discerned the mark of the eternal enemy of mankind. And whereto shall we look for vengeance?’
‘Well, the police force, sir – ’
‘Whereto but the Lord?’ shrilled the vicar triumphantly. ‘Whereto, my brethren in uniform, but the Lord?’
‘Have you yourself, sir -’ began Parrish.
‘For vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’ went on the vicar, retreating hurriedly from Parrish’s question in the direction of the door. ‘And I will repay. Note that: I WILL repay. And who knows, brothers in the law, if he hath not repaid?’
And giving a public-school cackle, like a cockerel trying to laugh, the vicar trundled himself through the door and threw himself down the passage in a thunder of overturned furniture.
‘Oh my God,’ said Sergeant Feather.
‘No, just the vicar,’ said Parrish. ‘But he does have the gift of pulling you up short, I’ll give him that.’
CHAPTER VIII
MATTER FOR A MAY MORNING
Alison Mailer’s death did not make the front pages of the newspapers. Even the Sun only managed to squeeze it in on page three, and then it only gave four lines. Too many other things had happened: Mr Benn had said something nice about the British worker, and all the editors were outraged; a new mountain had been discovered somewhere in the Common Market; aspersions had been cast on the sexual purity of Miss World. Alison was relegated to the inside pages if notice was taken of her at all, and the case showed no signs of becoming a cause célèbre, which was the only thing that could have compensated Alison for that nasty dent in the back of her skull.
So that, though it got to Ted Livermore’s ears that the delicious topic of murder was exciting the community which he was supposed to be investigating in depth for its transatlantic twin, nobody mentioned to him over Tuesday the identity of the victim. Nor did he go out of his way to discuss the matter with anyone: murders did not fit in with the totally cosy image of Twytching which he thought it his duty (for commercial reasons) to put over in his programme. Twytching’s American cousins would expect it to be quaint, friendly, and impregnated with history and folk-culture, and that’s how it was going to be. So when nobody brought the matter up, he didn’t think it was the sort of subject he ought to refer to himself. After a hard day chatting to the locals, meeting up with the various notables whom people mentioned and trying to select the most suitably commonplace, Ted spent the early part of the evening in the deserted snug bar of the Lamb, where he had a few words with Joy, including an ambiguously worded invitation to his room. He had spent the later part of the evening upstairs, reading, waiting, and hoping. So by Wednesday lunch-time he was still unaware that he had been largely displaced as prime object of interest to the natives of Twytching.
‘Not many in this morning,’ he said t
o Tom Billington, as he sat on the bar stool in the saloon bar, and wondered when Joy would descend from the landlord’s flat in the upper regions (three doors along from his) and take over the pumps.
‘It’ll be filling up before long,’ said Tom.
‘Because I’m here, you mean,’ said Ted. In point of fact, Tom had meant that people would be coming in order to use the Lamb as a discussion forum for all their various theories of the murder, which by two o’clock would be solved in everybody’s minds – differently in each case, but to the satisfaction of each individual solver. But Ted’s mistake was entirely without conceit, which was far from being one of his sins: he had been in radio and television long enough now to accept unconcernedly the fact that he was inevitably the centre of interest in the communities he visited, and couldn’t imagine any other state of affairs – just as Royalty patronizing the Rangers-Celtic match probably assume that everyone has come to see them.
‘Odd little place this,’ said Ted.
Tom wiped away at a beer glass before replying. He was as unlikely to rush into things as any genuine native-born countryman.
‘Nice enough little place,’ he said finally. ‘Sort of place we’ve been looking for for a long time.’
When Tom said this, Ted knew he had come to Twytching in order to go to seed. Ted devoutly hoped this process included neglecting his wife.
‘Oh, it’s a nice enough little place,’ said Ted. ‘Don’t get me wrong. But the people puzzle me, you know. Of course they’re all hell bent on getting on the programme – ’
‘Natural,’ said Tom Billington.
‘Oh yes, absolutely to be expected. And we know how to deal with the pushing type in our trade. On the other hand, there’s something odd here: when I hint to someone they might be on, they’re pleased in a way – but I get a funny feeling they’re almost afraid. Don’t quite know how to describe it.’
‘Natural enough, though,’ said Tom, considering. ‘That too.’
‘But they’re not nervous, that’s not what I mean. They’re more scared. A look comes into their eyes – that’s what I haven’t seen before anywhere.’
‘Wouldn’t know about that,’ said Tom. Was it Ted Livermore’s imagination, or did a veil slide down over his eyes too – a gesture of withdrawal from that topic of conversation? At that moment Joy Billington came down, and the thought went out of Ted’s mind, as did almost all other thoughts. As Tom drifted weightily away in the direction of the public bar, Ted subtly changed his personality from being chaps together with Tom to being the irresistible cosmopolitan sophisticate with the delectable Joy. Pop singers and prime ministers ask my advice, his manner said, and even the Archbishop of Canterbury is not above consulting me about his public image. Within a few minutes the innuendos and veiled invitations were falling thick and fast (for she had not come last night, in spite of his expectation), but before long the bar started filling up, and he had to refine his technique of seduction to a level of indirection well above the comprehension of the cheerful, direct Joy Billington.
Mrs Leaze shuffled in for her morning gin and it, her expensive fur coat just that mite too short to hide her petticoat, which had hardly known an upward turn since the murder news broke; she was joined by Mrs Buller and Val, and they sat at a corner table exchanging inaccurate information with great goodwill. Mrs Buller’s Val’s Sam was down the other end of the bar with Brewer the fishmonger, a jolly, smelly presence, and Dr McGregor stood near, sipping a very large neat scotch (he had asked for a simple whisky and soda, loudly, but this was a little fiction for public consumption which had been arranged with Tom Billington as soon as he arrived, and had been one of Tom’s first experiences of the deceptions of simple village life). McGregor chatted to Tom about his back, as if this was the only reason he had come in. But around half past twelve the conviviality of the scene was broken for Ted by the entrance of Harold Thring.
‘Ted,’ Harold called urgently from the door, ‘Ted!’ If the name Ted could have been hissed, Harold would have hissed it.
‘Hello, Harold,’ said Ted, with the tolerance born of long acquaintance and a nice nature. ‘Have a drink.’
Harold sidled in, throwing stiletto-sharp glances to all sides.
‘Well, yes, just while I tell you. Gin and tonic, please.’ He slipped his green-linen-covered bottom suggestively on to a bar stool and leaned towards Ted, who leaned backwards.
‘Have you heard?’ asked Harold urgently.
‘Heard what?’ said Ted. ‘About the murder?’
Harold looked terribly disappointed. ‘Oh, you have. I thought you couldn’t have done – sitting here as calm as you please. The point is, where does it leave us?’
‘Us?’ said Ted. ‘Well, nowhere. We shall ignore it, of course. You couldn’t mention that sort of thing on the programme, not at all the sort of thing the Yanks are after.’
‘Well obviously, ducky,’ said Harold crossly. ‘Do you think I’m out of my mind? What I mean is: what will the big boys at Broadwich say? If they get to know we’re involved?’
‘Involved? Why are we involved?’
‘You mean you don’t know who it was then?’ said Harold, somewhat placated for not having been the first bearer of bad tidings. ‘Your friend, that’s who it was.’
‘What friend?’
‘Mrs Whatsername – Mailer. The one you said we’d have to have on the programme.’
‘Her? Good God.’ Ted took time to consider this aspect of things. ‘Such a cool, fresh type she looked too.’
‘Well, she won’t look so fresh now,’ said Harold brutally. ‘She’s had her head bashed in. The point is, ought we to tell them?’
‘Tell who what?’
‘Tell the police. About my having let it out after the amenities meeting that she was to be on the programme.’
‘Did you tell people that?’
‘Yes, I did. I told you at the time.’
‘So you did,’ said Ted, who never listened to Harold. ‘You mean that could have been the reason why she got done in, I suppose. By a jealous competitor, or something.’
‘Well, it could, couldn’t it,’ said Harold, pop-eyed with excitement. ‘Murder’s been done for less.’
‘Fifty pee, the last one I read about,’ said Ted. ‘It’s about the only job people are asking less for doing these days.’
‘They were all livid about it when I told them,’ said Harold, with relish. ‘I could see by their faces.’
‘Of course they were,’ said Ted, thinking this was probably why Harold told them.
‘Then you think I’d better go to the police about it?’ asked Harold, quivering with excitement at the thought of being taken down in shorthand by a tall, fair, fresh-faced young policeman.
‘They probably know about it already,’ said Ted. ‘Someone’s bound to have told them.’
‘Spoilsport,’ said Harold. ‘Anyway, I’m not so sure. You know what these small places are like. People can really clam up if they want to. Especially if they feel threatened.’
‘Well, go along and see them, then,’ said Ted, who was pleased with any excuse for getting rid of Harold, and certainly didn’t want to appear too pally with him when Joy was watching. ‘Have a good chat to them. Give them the whole background.’
‘I will,’ said Harold, sliding himself off his bar stool, and giving a little wriggle at the rear, like a spaniel hoping for a walk. ‘Will you hold the fort?’
‘I’ll hold the fort,’ said Ted. ‘But will Lancelot get his Guinevere?’ he added in the direction of Joy Billington. She gave him a lustrous, sensual smile, and wondered vaguely who Gwen Vere was.
• • •
Inspector Parrish was profoundly embarrassed. It wasn’t that he was bad at talking to children. Usually he was quite good, and all the better at it for not having to do it too often. Young criminals found him much easier than Sergeant Feather, who had all the puritanism and much of the self-righteousness of the virtuous young. But to talk to a young girl
about her dead mother!
And Cressida Mailer was not making things easy for him. She was still not crying. On the surface she seemed quite collected, but Inspector Parrish noticed that her face twisted involuntarily at times, doubtless in grief or anxiety. She gave her answers calmly and briefly, as if to a history master who had asked her for the principal consequences of the Battle of Bannockburn.
‘So in fact you didn’t see your mother either after dinner on Monday?’ said Parrish, going over ground already covered and wondering if Cressida would elaborate on her story and come up with something of value.
‘No,’ said Cressida, in her soft, musical voice.
‘And you yourself didn’t leave your own bedroom after eight o’clock except to go to the bathroom?’
‘That’s right,’ said Cressida.
‘And you were reading and writing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Homework, I suppose, was it?’ asked Parrish. ‘There’s always homework, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, it was mostly homework,’ said Cressida.
Parrish sighed. He got the impression not that the girl was trying to be unhelpful, but that she just didn’t know how to be helpful. She answered by rote, as if these were matters she had pondered over long before he asked her about them.
‘Where is your bedroom, now, in relation to your mother’s and father’s?’
Cressida answered promptly. ‘It’s a little box-room, right at the end of the landing. A sort of big cupboard. Mother’s room was at the other end.’
‘Just by the top of the stairs?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Tell me, Cressida – can I call you that? – ’ Cressida looked at him hard, and for a moment he thought she would say neither yea nor nay, but finally she smiled briefly and nodded – ‘do you think your mummy could have left her room and gone out without your hearing her?’
A Little Local Murder Page 9