by Faith Martin
‘I had no interest in watching the amateur dramatics, but I was interested in photographing the eyecatcher to go with the article I was writing for a history periodical that I subscribe to, and occasionally write for.’
The inspector sighed softly. ‘So you were nowhere near the village pond this afternoon Dr Gilchrist?’
‘No, I wasn’t,’ Rory said flatly and loudly.
‘Er, did you go to this eyecatcher alone?’
Rory smiled thinly. ‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘And did anyone see you at this eyecatcher, sir?’
‘Hardly, Inspector. It’s just a pile of stones in the middle of a farmer’s field. I dare say a few sheep might vouch for me, if you care to question them.’
Someone in a far corner tittered at this, but the inspector ignored this magnificently.
‘And what time did you go to see this folly, sir?’
‘I left here straight after lunch. Say between two-thirty and three o’clock, I imagine. I wasn’t paying much attention to the time, you understand? I had no reason to.’
‘Yes, sir. And you returned when, do you think?’
Rory made a show of glancing at his watch now. ‘I must have got back here a little before five-thirty I would think. Or maybe a bit later? Richard might know.’
‘Richard? Oh, Mr Sparkey, the landlord?’
‘Yes. He served me a drink at the bar.’
‘Very good, sir, I’ll check with him later. Now, I’ve heard that Miss Norman was a very friendly young lady, sir. A bit flirtatious, one might say. Did you and she . . .’
‘No,’ Rory said flatly and uncompromisingly. Beside him, Vince Braine sighed heavily. Rory ignored him.
‘Did you ever see or hear her arguing with anybody, sir?’ Franklyn pressed on.
‘I can’t say as I did.’
‘And you’re not aware of any incident involving the young lady that you think should be drawn to our attention?’
‘As I told you, Inspector,’ the academic said patiently, ‘I wasn’t really interested in the theatrical aspect of the weekend. I barely paid any of the players any attention at all. Apart from my friend Vincent here, of course.’
‘Hmm,’ the inspector said thoughtfully, catching Jenny’s eye.
He knew, of course, because Jenny had filled him in on all that she’d seen and heard, that the Oxford don had been arguing with another woman. But since that woman hadn’t — yet — turned up dead, he couldn’t see how it was really relevant.
Nevertheless, he decided to poke around it a little, just to see what came of it. Inspector Franklyn rather liked being a nuisance to those who thought themselves his betters — either by dint of earning more money than he did, or because they thought themselves either morally or intellectually superior.
‘I understand that you met an old friend here at the inn, sir.’
‘What?’ Rory asked, stiffening slightly and casting a quick, suspicious look at Vince, who looked as surprised by the question as Dr Gilchrist.
‘A rather attractive red-headed woman in a trouser suit. You were seen, er . . . talking in an animated way with her?’
‘Oh. Diana,’ Rory said shortly, sighing heavily. ‘That was just my ex-wife, Inspector. And nothing at all to do with this,’ and he waved a hand vaguely around the room.
In her seat, Jenny tensed. She’d have to tell the inspector that Diana Gilchrist had been at the pond this afternoon — and, what’s more, had been rather anxious not to be questioned by the police. But since she was fairly sure that he’d want that information kept private, she couldn’t just blurt it out here and now.
‘I see, sir,’ the inspector nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, that will be all for now, Dr Gilchrist. But if anything else occurs to you concerning Miss Norman, you will notify me at once?’
‘Of course,’ Rory said, clearly looking relieved that it was all over. And reaching for his glass, he tossed back his remaining whiskey with a gulp.
The inspector then turned to the older man beside him. ‘And you are Mr Vincent Braine, I understand? And you’re also a member of the Amateur Dramatic Society, and performed here over the weekend?’
‘I am, Inspector, but I have to say, I don’t think this is any way to conduct an interview, and I, for one, shall not be saying anything further!’
CHAPTER NINE
Inspector Franklyn, perhaps not unexpectedly, blinked a little at both the abruptness and implied antagonism of this statement. After enduring both Silas’s and Dr Gilchrist’s insistence on being upfront and open about things in front of so many witnesses, he felt himself now being wrong-footed by the distinctly confrontational attitude of the older, eminently respectable-looking man glowering back at him.
‘Of course, sir,’ he began cautiously and soothingly. ‘That is certainly your right, and—’
‘I’m very aware that that is my right, Inspector,’ Vince interrupted him crisply. ‘I’m a senior partner at Braine, Phipps and Bagley, which is one of several solicitors’ offices that provides services to the local area,’ Vince couldn’t resist a bit of free advertising.
‘Ah,’ the inspector said, suddenly seeing the light. And abruptly changed gears. ‘At last, a man who understands the law,’ he said with a beatific smile. ‘In that case, sir, I’ll simply ask you for a few necessary details and then move on. Your full name please, sir?’
Vince, unable to refuse such a simple request, rather grumpily condescended to give his name, then his address.
‘And just to make sure I’ve got this right,’ Franklyn slipped in craftily, ‘you were playing the part of . . .’ the inspector made a big show of consulting his notebook, ‘Sir Hugh, opposite Miss Norman, who played your wife, so to speak?’
‘Yes, I had that privilege,’ Vince agreed stiffly. ‘Rachel was a very fine actress, Inspector. We Caulcott Deeping Players were lucky to have her join us.’
‘Oh? She was a bit of a star was she?’
‘She was the only one of us who had professional connections, yes. She’d done some advertising work. And she had a wonderful voice. You may have heard it on several voice-overs . . .’ Vince, suddenly aware that he was, indeed, actually answering the inspector’s questions in public, suddenly closed his mouth with a snap and glared at him. ‘Once again, Inspector, I have to remind you that the proper and rightful place for me to give a statement of this kind is at the police station.’
‘Sorry, yes! Of course, sir — so when can you come in?’ Franklyn asked, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘Naturally, we’d like to get as much done as soon as possible. But I’m aware that your time must be valuable?’
Vince flushed at this. Clearly he didn’t like the implication that he accorded his free time as being more important than co-operating after the death of a young woman. ‘I can come in tomorrow morning, first thing. Say nine-thirty?’ he said, through slightly gritted teeth.
‘Wonderful, sir,’ the inspector said fulsomely. ‘Sergeant, we have all the details of Miss Norman’s home address and next of kin, don’t we? Because if not, I’m sure Mr Braine wouldn’t mind giving them to us.’
‘Yes, sir, we have them,’ O’Connor said flatly. ‘The family liaison officer should be informing her parents by now.’
Again Vince flushed angrily. Now he was being portrayed as a nit-picking boor in the face of a genuine tragedy. As if he didn’t feel deeply for the girl’s poor parents!
‘Fine, fine,’ Franklyn said with a heavy sigh.
‘Look, Inspector, I have as much feeling for Rachel’s family as anyone,’ Vince began hotly. ‘What happened to her was an absolute tragedy.’
‘Yes, sir. And I expect you’d feel it deeply, too, since you’d known her for some time?’
‘Nearly three years, yes.’
‘So this Regency play wasn’t the first time you’d worked with her?’
‘Good grief, no!’
‘Was it going well, would you say, sir? The role of . . . Lady Hester, wasn’t it? Did Miss Norman seem to be
enjoying it?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Vince said, clearly being a little economical with the truth now. Jenny had already told the inspector that the dead woman had thought the little production was way beneath her.
‘So she seemed very much as normal, would you say?’
Vince bridled. ‘Certainly she did, Inspector.’
‘But I understand that last night, just before you gave your evening performance here at the inn, Miss Norman asked you a rather startling question, didn’t she, sir?’ Franklyn slipped in effortlessly.
Vince startled like a horse having a firework thrown under its legs. ‘What? What do you mean? Certainly not!’ he denied hotly.
‘Oh?’ Franklyn made a good show of looking puzzled. And again, ostentatiously consulted his notebook. Meanwhile the rest of the avidly listening room held its collective breath.
‘I’ve been told, by several witnesses,’ Franklyn added the lie smoothly, ‘that Miss Norman asked you whether or not it was true that if somebody knew of something illegal happening, and that person didn’t then disclose it, that they could be held accountable for it under the law?’
It took a moment for Vince, and everyone else, to untangle this rather convoluted sentence.
And then, for a moment, there was a tense, expectant silence.
And Jenny had the sudden but overwhelming feeling that somebody, somewhere in the room, had suddenly become very frightened indeed. In fact, out of the corner of her eye, she just caught a sudden, sharp, compulsive movement, almost as if someone had jerked, as if being given an electric shock.
But when she quickly turned her head and looked around the room, she couldn’t tell who it might have been. Her eyes flickered briefly over Silas and Min, but they seemed to be sipping their drinks placidly at the bar.
Then, with a start, she noticed that Ion Dryfuss was sitting at the stool beside them. And just when had he slipped in, Jenny wondered. He must have come back not long after she had, for he’d now obviously showered and changed into dry clothes.
But when had he come downstairs from his room? And just how much had he heard of the inspector’s rather unorthodox questioning of his fellow weekenders?
‘Well, er, she might have done something of the kind,’ Vince’s reluctant voice suddenly dragged Jenny back to the drama going on right beside her, and she turned her attention back to the inspector’s deft handling of the old solicitor.
She looked at Vince thoughtfully. Was there more behind his unwillingness to talk to the police than mere pedantry?
‘And what did you advise her, sir? As a man of the law, I’m sure you were able to give her chapter and verse?’ Franklyn flattered him cheerfully.
‘Well, I didn’t really have the time to go into it then and there, because we were just about to start our performance, and that area of the law can be a rather complicated matter that would depend very much on circumstances,’ Vince spluttered. ‘But naturally the question alarmed and rather concerned me. It could have been nothing, or equally, it could have been a serious matter, obviously, and I definitely needed to know more details, which was why I intended to talk to her more fully later when . . . Now look here, Inspector,’ Vince, for a second time becoming aware that he’d allowed the inspector to lead him astray, got up abruptly from his seat. ‘As I told you at the outset, this is not the time or place to discuss such things! I’ll see you at the police station tomorrow morning at nine-thirty sharp, where I’ll be very happy to answer any and all questions, and make and sign my statement. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll get home to bed. It’s been a long and tiring and, quite frankly, very distressing day. So I’ll bid you good night.’
And so saying, he walked stiffly out of the now totally silent room, a slight flush on his cheeks at being the centre of so much intense attention.
Jenny heard the inspector sigh heavily as he left. Franklyn then turned to his sergeant and nodded. ‘Right then. We seem to have spoken to all the main players now — in a manner of speaking. Is there anyone else that we need to get to tonight who can’t wait until tomorrow?’ he asked wearily.
The blonde woman nodded. ‘We should probably talk to Matthew Greenslade, sir. The other major actor in the drama,’ she added, when he looked at her a shade blankly.
‘Oh, the young man who was playing the doomed lover,’ Franklyn rolled his eyes. ‘OK. Let’s get to it, then we’ll call it a night. He’s not here is he?’ he added, looking around the room hopefully.
‘No, sir,’ Sergeant O’Connor said. ‘He wasn’t at the performance, it seems.’
Franklyn nodded gloomily. ‘But he lives locally I hope?’
‘Cheltenham, sir, not far,’ Lucy said encouragingly. ‘I’ll drive, shall I?’ she added more firmly.
And suddenly, the bar room began to fill with excited chatter as the two police officers left.
‘Bloody hell, I need another drink,’ she heard Rory Gilchrist mutter from his position on the window seat.
Jenny thought that she could probably do with another one herself! It was barely eight o’clock, after all, and the rest of the evening was stretching out ahead of her.
* * *
As Lucy O’Connor drove them quickly but competently towards the town of Cheltenham, famous for its horse racing and a rather distinguished ladies’ college, Thomas Franklyn did a mental recap of the last few hours. It was something he often did once the shape of his latest task became clear, and it helped him sort out his priorities and get things clear in his head.
So, how was this latest case shaping up? Mentally, he gave a little grunt. Until he had the results of the autopsy, he wasn’t even sure that he had much of a case at all. Despite the super-doc’s doubts, it could all turn out to be a death due to natural causes. In which case he could pass it on to the coroner and say good riddance to it.
But somehow he didn’t think that was likely. And when he tracked down the reason for this belief, he realised that it had less to do with the medical examiner’s doubts, and more to do with the attitude of one Miss Jenny Starling!
Because the cook, he could tell, definitely thought the young girl had been murdered. And whilst the opinion of a member of the public shouldn’t have amounted, as Humphrey Bogart would have insisted, to ‘a hill of beans,’ in this case, it very much did. For, after knowing her less than a few hours, the inspector was beginning to experience, first-hand, the reasons why some of his colleagues regarded her with such a mixture of high esteem and extreme displeasure!
The woman clearly saw and understood the things that happened around her. And if she felt something was off, then it probably was.
Franklyn sighed, watching the darkening scenery flash by outside the car window.
Without doubt, the cook’s witness testimony so far had been very helpful, as had her verbal sketches of all the people involved. Which, after seeing and talking to the majority of them for himself now, he rather thought were spot on. So he was fairly confident that he had a good basic background knowledge of both the crime scene and the cast of characters — so to speak — that were involved.
Apart from the man they were about to see, that is.
‘So what do we know about this Greenslade bloke then, Lucy?’ he asked quietly.
Sergeant O’Connor, a very smooth and efficient driver, never took her eyes off the road, but recounted what she’d been able to glean about the am-dram actor over the course of the afternoon and evening — both from talking to people and accessing her laptop.
‘Matthew Greenslade, sir. Aged twenty-five, went to Reading Uni where he took a BA in . . . damn! I forget. Something general, sir — business studies I think. Anyway, he’s still up to his ears in student debt. Six one, with blond hair and green eyes, clean driving licence. He’s not known to us,’ Lucy added, giving the usual shorthand phrase for saying that he had no criminal record or convictions. ‘He works in an estate agent’s in Cheltenham, but still lives with his mum and dad, apparently.’ Her voice became a shade dry at t
he irony of this statement.
‘Poor sod, I bet he takes some stick from his friends for that,’ Franklyn muttered sympathetically.
‘Yes, sir,’ Lucy said flatly. ‘As you know, it’s hard for young people like us to get on the housing ladder. Apparently he’s saving for a deposit for a flat in one of those new-builds on the edge of town — with his firm’s help, naturally. But that might all be falling by the wayside, now that he and his fiancée seem to have parted. She was probably going halves with the mortgage plan.’
Franklyn grunted. ‘Who is she again?’
‘Felicity Thornton, sir, a hairdresser at a local salon. Again, not known to us.’
Her superior officer sighed and turned his attention back to the night flashing past his passenger-side window, and neither of them spoke again until Lucy’s satnav helpfully deposited them outside a modest but well-maintained semi. Set in the middle of a cul-de-sac of similar houses, which had clearly been built just after the Second World War by the local council for returning soldiers, it had grey plastered walls and newly installed white PVC double glazing.
The front garden was small but looked tidy, with a little magnolia tree set in the middle of a pocket-handkerchief-sized lawn.
‘Very nice,’ Lucy said, getting out and looking around. Unlike new-builds, which seemed to her to have a shelf-life of about five minutes, these old council houses had been built to last, by proper craftsmen who knew what they were doing. Not that many of them belonged to the housing association anymore, she supposed, since it was clear that the majority of them were now in private ownership. Extensions, conversions, and conservatories sprouted here and there like so many mushrooms.
Like the man they were here to see, Lucy too was having trouble getting into her first home, and still shared a two-bedroom flat in Gloucester with a girl she’d known since her schooldays.
They walked up the front path, which was bordered by two strips of neatly clipped, low box hedging, and rang the doorbell. The man who answered was clearly not Matthew Greenslade, being somewhere in his late fifties, but was almost certainly his father. Tall and fair, he looked troubled by finding two police officers on his doorstep on a Sunday evening. As well he might.