by J F Straker
‘Just a minute, sir.’ Norris-Kerr turned to the girl. ‘Is that right, miss? Were you up at the Hall Sunday evening?’
‘Yes, I was.’ She wondered at the surprise in his voice. ‘For about an hour and a half.’
Mace, impatient at the interruption, was about to continue. But Pitt stopped him.
‘If you don’t mind, sir, I think it would be better if Miss Mace gave us her own account of what happened.’
Sybil uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them, not unaware of the red-headed sergeant’s stare. The gleam in his eye gave her confidence. She lit another cigarette from the stub of the first and inhaled deeply.
‘I was on my way home,’ she said. ‘There’s a bend in the lane — Tithe Lane, I mean — and as I rounded it I saw a woman ahead of me. She was half walking, half running — very much in a hurry. I was slowing down to offer her a lift when I recognized Mrs Colling.’
‘Did you stop?’ Pitt asked.
‘No, I didn’t. It would have been silly. She lives just round the corner from there.’
The inspector probed his upper dentures with his tongue.
‘And you think now that Mrs Colling may have murdered John Cluster?’
Sybil flushed. ‘I didn’t say that,’ she objected. ‘But she certainly didn’t want to be recognized. As I passed her she had her coat collar up, and her head was turned away from me.’
‘And yet you are quite sure it was Mrs Colling?’
‘Yes, I am. Quite sure.’
‘Would she have recognized you or the car?’
The girl shrugged. Mace said, ‘We deal with the London Road Garage, Inspector. I doubt if Mrs Colling would know the car in the dark.’
Pitt nodded. ‘And you say this was just after ten, miss?’
‘Yes. Between ten and fifteen minutes past.’
The inspector lapsed into thought. Julia sat hunched up, her fingers twiddling nervously. Mace stood beside the sergeant, both of them staring thoughtfully at the girl.
‘Is that all, miss?’ Pitt asked quietly.
Sybil started. Momentarily she had forgotten him, and was back in thought at the Hall.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘In fact, if it hadn’t been for—’
And there she stopped. She mustn’t mention the car. Julia was listening. And right now Julia was more dangerous than the police.
‘For what, miss?’ the inspector prompted.
‘Oh, nothing. I was thinking of something else. It had nothing to do with Mrs Colling.’
That was true. Yet she was surprised and relieved that he accepted her answer so readily. So was her father; he had no doubt at all that she was lying. But Mace’s relief was short-lived; out in the hall Pitt said, ‘I fancy your daughter is keeping something back, sir. Any idea what it could be?’
Mace shook his head, uncomfortable in his own uncertainty.
‘No? Well, perhaps she’ll confide in you when we’ve gone.’
‘I doubt it, Inspector. She’s an obstinate girl. Independent — not given to confidences.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Mace—’ suggested the sergeant.
The solicitor’s frown deepened. ‘Perhaps. We’ll see what we can do, anyway.’
As the police car moved smoothly down the gravelled drive Pitt leaned forward. ‘Turn left,’ he said to the driver. ‘There’s a white bungalow named Agincourt about a mile up the road on the right-hand side. That’s where we’re going.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Or I am. You can drop me there and then go on to the Hall. I want to know just how Miss Mace occupied herself there Sunday evening. And don’t forget to send the car back for me. I don’t share the local mania for walking.’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Who lives at Agincourt?’
‘Colonel Gresham.’
Norris-Kerr grinned. ‘I should have guessed.’
With the Colonel’s bungalow went an acre of ground and a small spinney known locally as ‘Gresham’s Shoot,’ in which the owner had occasionally surprised a stray wood-pigeon. He was in a cheerful and friendly mood when the inspector called, offered him a drink, and needed little prompting to expound his opinion of the late John Cluster.
‘Ought not to be maligning him now he’s dead,’ he admitted, ‘but the fellow was a damned scoundrel. No other word for him. I was doing me shopping in the village, and damn me if the dog didn’t disappear! Hunted high and low for the little devil — no sign of him at all. Then an old boy named West told me he’d seen the dog in a field behind the church. That’s Cluster’s land and it was Cluster who shot him. Good as admitted it in the pub that night; said the dog had been worrying his sheep. Absolute nonsense, of course; Dandy’s used to sheep. And from the way the fellow spoke you’d think his blasted animals did their lambing in November! I’d have sued the blighter if he hadn’t got himself knifed.’
‘It’s about that knifing I’ve called to see you,’ Pitt said. ‘A lot of people seem to have had it in for John Cluster. Of course, I’m not suggesting your own dislike of the man would have carried you to such an extreme. But for form’s sake would you mind telling me how you spent Sunday evening?’
The question came as no surprise to the Colonel.
‘Mind? Good lord, no, my dear fellow! Not that it takes much telling. Went out for a drink at the Adairs’; doctor fellow, lives t’other side of the village. Got home around seven-fifteen, topped up with another whisky, and then ate me dinner. After that I read for a while. Must have got to bed about eleven.’
‘So from seven-fifteen you were here on your own?’
‘That’s right. The good lady that does for me clears off at six. Leaves me dinner in the oven if it’s hot — which mostly it ain’t.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Mrs Noakes ain’t one for spoiling me.’
That the inspector could believe. The room was eloquent of Mrs Noakes’s neglect. ‘You’re very isolated here,’ he said.
‘Suits me. Can’t stand neighbours looking over the fence.’
Pitt could understand that, and said so. ‘But I expect they’ll build round you eventually,’ he said, standing up. ‘They always do.’
As he led the way into the hall the Colonel said, ‘I hope you’re a false prophet, Inspector. Anyway, there’s been no hint of building in the five years I’ve been here.’
‘Five years, eh? That would be about the time Cluster’s first wife died, wouldn’t it?’ Pitt stroked his chin. ‘I understand she was a relative of yours, Colonel.’
Gresham swore under his breath. Who the devil had thought fit to release that awkward piece of information? No doubt they had also not forgotten to mention how Cluster had treated Isobel. With that and the dog, and the whisky Cluster had flung at him, no wonder the police had decided to pay him a visit.
‘Yes,’ he said curtly.
Pitt did not bother him further. But as he walked down the path to the waiting police car he suspected that the little Colonel was feeling considerably less cheerful than on his arrival half an hour before.
The thought did not give him any satisfaction.
*
Sergeant Norris-Kerr, comfortably seated in the large drawing-room at Mytton Hall, was bathed in a warm glow of gratitude to his superior officer. The Hall, he had decided after that first visit, was the one place in Cheswick that he most wanted to be. It was damned decent of the Old Man to take Agincourt and the Colonel for himself, and to give his subordinate the Hall and Penelope Hooper.
‘Miss Mace was certainly here Sunday evening, officer,’ Sir Richard said. ‘But why no one mentioned her visit to you yesterday I just don’t know. I suppose it wasn’t considered sufficiently important.’
‘We only saw her for a few minutes,’ said Lady Hooper, her knitting needles clicking busily. ‘She popped in to say hello and good-bye, but for most of the time she was upstairs with Penny. Wasn’t she, dear?’
The girl nodded, wriggling uncomfortably in her chair. ‘Yes, mother,’ she said.
‘Why didn’t you mention Sybil to the Sergeant?’ asked he
r mother.
‘I suppose I forgot.’
That wasn’t true, of course; Sybil’s visit had been very much on her mind, but she could not betray her friend. If only Sybil had confided in her more fully, so that she would have known how much she could safely pass on to the police! But neither of them had anticipated then that either murder or the police would impinge on their lives.
Norris-Kerr grinned at her, and Penelope’s allegiance to her friend slipped a little. He’s a most attractive beast, she thought. Far too attractive to be a policeman.
‘Probably my fault,’ he said. ‘I should have been more explicit.’ He turned to Sir Richard. ‘At what time did Miss Mace arrive, sir?’
‘Shortly after dinner. About eight-thirty, wasn’t it, Maggie?’ Lady Hooper, who was counting stitches, nodded without looking up. ‘But, as my wife has told you, we hardly saw her — though she did look in to say good-bye. Around ten o’clock, I suppose that would be.’
‘And she was upstairs with you the whole of that time, Miss Hooper?’ asked the sergeant.
Penelope hesitated. It was hateful having to lie. Still more hateful when she didn’t know why the lie was necessary. But she had promised.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘That seems to be all, then. Thank you. Oh — may I have a word with your son, sir, if he’s in? I missed him yesterday.’
‘Certainly. Penny, run along to the study and tell Clifford he’s wanted by the police.’ A loud rumbling that seemed to originate deep in the pit of his stomach announced to the knowledgeable that Sir Richard was amused. ‘I hope he doesn’t take you too literally.’
Norris-Kerr stood up hastily, echoing the laugh. ‘No need for that, sir. If Miss Hooper will be kind enough to show me the way...’
Out in the wide, lofty hall he paused to look up at the heavily gilt-framed portraits that lined the panelled walls. ‘The family ancestors, eh? Quite an imposing collection.’
‘They’re not ours,’ Penelope told him frankly. ‘We haven’t got any. Those are Myttons. We look after them for Missemily because she hasn’t enough room in the cottage.’
He turned from the portraits to the girl. At eighteen she still retained, as her father was fond of reminding her, some of her puppy-fat. But plumpness suited Penelope. Her skin was clear and her complexion good, and there was a general air of freshness about her. Grey eyes were set wide apart about a small tip-tilted nose, and her mouth was generous. She wore her dark hair low on her neck, brushed back from a high forehead to show the small, delicate ears. Norris-Kerr thought her refreshingly attractive.
Penelope saw the admiration in his eyes and coloured. ‘The study’s at the end of the hall,’ she told him.
Clifford Hooper was a tall, good-looking youth, but without his sister’s frank expression. His eyes did not meet the sergeant’s as Penelope introduced them.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said. She turned to the detective. ‘Come along to the drawing-room when you’re through, will you? Daddy will expect you to have a drink before you go.’
‘Well?’ asked Clifford, when the girl had gone. He did not offer his visitor a chair.
‘It’s about Sunday evening, sir. I’m told you went for a walk. Did you see Miss Mace on your return?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where? Upstairs with your sister?’
Clifford hesitated, wondering what his answer should be. Before he had decided the telephone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, thankful for the interruption, and picked up the receiver. For a moment he listened. Then he said quietly, ‘Hang on a minute,’ and turned to the sergeant.
‘Would you mind if I took this on the other ’phone?’ he asked. ‘It happens to be rather personal.’
‘Go right ahead,’ Norris-Kerr told him. ‘I’m in no hurry.’
Clifford walked slowly to the far end of the hall. His slowness was deliberate. He had waited two days for Sybil to telephone. Now that she was actually at the other end of the line he did not know what to say.
Sybil was in no such quandary.
‘That you, Cliff? Good! I thought you’d rung off. You’re not mad at me, are you? About Sunday evening, I mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘I couldn’t blame you if you were. I know I’ve been an absolute beast. That’s why I didn’t ring you before; I hadn’t the nerve. But I couldn’t wait any longer because I need your help. Cliff! Are you listening?’
‘Go on,’ he said, a barely perceptible tremor in his voice.
‘It’s about Sunday. The police know I was up at your place, but I told them I was with Penny. I know she’ll back me up if they question her; but how about you? I suppose I shouldn’t be asking it of you, Cliff — only it’s absolutely vital that they don’t find out I was—’
Hurt and angry as he was, some instinct prompted him to put down the receiver. Softly he slid along the hall. As he reached the open door of the study he saw the sergeant gently replace the receiver on the rest.
‘So that’s it.’ All the worry and anger and uncertainty of the past two days, the bitterness that Sybil’s call had aroused in him, spilt themselves into his voice. ‘But then I ought to have known that detectives possess neither the instincts nor the habits of gentlemen.’
The words were prim, but there was nothing prim about his bearing. He was trembling with rage. Norris-Kerr shrugged his shoulders, a grey look on his freckled face. ‘We may have them, but we can’t always afford to employ them. Murder’s a nasty business, Mr Hooper; sometimes it takes nasty methods to catch up with it. They’re not always in the book, and we may not like them any more than you do. But we use them.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now suppose you tell me what all that was about, eh?’
‘Get out!’ Clifford said. ‘I’m telling you nothing.’
With an effort the sergeant controlled his temper.
‘That’s a very foolish attitude to adopt, Mr Hooper. It won’t help Miss Mace, and it won’t help you. So why not be sensible?’
‘Get out!’ Clifford said again.
He stood by the door and watched the policeman walk down the hall and out through the front door. Then he went back to the study, sat down in front of the big, leather-topped desk, and, laying his head on his folded arms, burst into tears.
*
Miss Justin, perched not too comfortably on a chair in her friend’s sitting-room, listened with growing interest as Emily related, almost verbatim, her conversation with George Colling that morning.
‘So you see, Clara,’ Miss Mytton concluded, ‘we may not be able to say who actually murdered the man, but we do know that either George or his wife — or perhaps both — had a hand in it. And I fancy that’s farther than the police have got.’
‘Do you think so?’ Miss Justin sounded doubtful. ‘Suppose Mr Colling told the inspector what he told you?’
‘I’ve no doubt he did, Clara. But the police don’t know George as we do. They wouldn’t appreciate that he was lying. That’s what I meant when I said we had a special responsibility. However—’ Miss Mytton’s long face assumed a look of triumph. ‘You can be sure I didn’t leave it at that. This afternoon I went to see Ernest about the hymns for next Sunday.’
Miss Justin was puzzled. ‘What have hymns to do with it?’
‘Nothing. But from the hymns we progressed to the murder. And it was then Ernest told me about meeting William Bright in the churchyard on Sunday night.’
‘William?’ Miss Justin was all attention. ‘What was he doing there?’
‘That’s what I asked Ernest. It appears he had gone to the vestry for a book Ernest — not William — and when he came out there was William. He had obviously come across the fields from this direction.’ Miss Mytton paused for emphasis. ‘And that, Clara, was at just after ten o’clock. Now! What do you make of that?’
Miss Justin made nothing of it, and said so.
‘William didn’t murder Cluster,’ she averred, with unusual firmness. ‘That I do know.’
Miss Mytton clucked impatiently. ‘You and your William! It’s time you came to your senses about that young man, Clara. I grant you he’s pleasant and presentable; but he’s also idle, and you know it. Make him earn his wages for a change. You’re far too lenient with him, my dear, and he trades on it.’
Miss Justin fidgeted uncomfortably at the accusation.
‘He’s not idle,’ she said, without much conviction. ‘It’s just that he’s not a quick worker. And I don’t see what all this has to do with Mr Cluster’s murder. You’re not suggesting William killed him because of their quarrel over the Colonel, are you? It’s too feeble, Emily.’
‘It’s not at all feeble.’ Miss Mytton’s booming voice dropped a few tones, acquiring in the dive a new quality of mystery. ‘You see, it’s my opinion they didn’t quarrel over the Colonel.’
‘But it was Jacob West who told me!’ her friend protested. ‘He was there. He said—’
‘That was the ostensible reason,’ Miss Mytton interrupted. ‘It wasn’t the real one. The real reason, Clara, was Gwendoline Colling.’
Miss Justin sat up so sharply she nearly slipped off the chair.
‘Mrs Colling? Oh, no, Emily!’
‘Oh, yes, Clara!’ mimicked Miss Mytton. ‘And I’ll tell you why. After leaving the vicarage I called on Mary West.’ She was quick to notice the frown on her friend’s face, and guessed the reason for it. ‘Now don’t get annoyed. I wasn’t treading on any corns.’
‘You might at least have consulted me.’
‘Nonsense. There was nothing to consult you about. Just because Mary works for you three mornings a week it doesn’t make her your property. Don’t start monopolizing her as you do William. Now, where was I? Oh, yes! Well, Mary told me that William had lately taken to going out regularly of an evening, sometimes on his bicycle and sometimes without. And usually in his best suit, she said.’ Miss Mytton almost winked. ‘Does that have any significance for you?’