by Joyce Porter
‘Yes.’
‘Name of Cuthbert Boys?’
Dover dropped his trump card in an off-hand manner but his mean, piggy eyes never left Mr Bonnington’s face. He was delighted to see that gentleman go quite white. Silently Dover chalked up the first round to himself.
Mr Bonnington licked his lips. ‘How in God’s name did you find that out?’ he whispered.
‘Oh, we have our methods, sir,’ said Dover grandly. ‘I take it that you were the one who changed your name?’
‘Yes,’ Mr Bonnington rubbed his hand miserably across his face. ‘As soon as I was twenty-one. I had decided to go into the Church and I felt that my connexion with Cuthbert, if it became known, would only prove an embarrassment to me. I had been left a small legacy by an aunt of mine and I let it become known that I was changing my name in accordance with her wishes. My brother – he was nearly ten years my senior – had already acquired a criminal record – petty fraud mostly, I seem to remember – and I flatter myself that I knew his character well enough to know that he would never change. I had to protect myself and my career – and the good name of the Church, of course. There’s nothing criminal in that, is there?’
‘You severed all connexion with your brother?’
‘Indeed I did! He had chosen his way and I, with God’s help, had chosen mine. My parents were both dead and we had no other close relations. From time to time I saw Cuthbert’s name in the newspapers – usually in the more sensational ones – but this only confirmed me in my determination to have nothing whatsoever to do with him. Every two or three years, however, he used to send me a postcard – one of the “ wish-you-were-here” type with a vulgar picture on the front. It was his idea of a joke but it also served to let me know that in spite of changing my name and everything, he still kept track of me. It was a great source of anxiety, especially after my marriage, but,’ Mr Bonnington signed resignedly, ‘we all have our crosses to bear.’
‘But nobody else was aware of the connexion?’
‘No, his postcards were very discreet. Even my late wife didn’t know. I am, Inspector, what in a more worldly sphere would perhaps be called an ambitious man. I wish to serve my Maker to the full stretch of my ability. I have much, with God’s help, to give to the Church and to the world. It would have been unthinkable that my not insignificant gifts – gifts from the Lord, of course – should have been allowed to rot in some clerical backwater just because I had a cheap criminal for a brother.’
‘Your brother wrote to you for help, I believe, when he was arrested for murdering four of his “ wives”?’
Mr Bonnington smiled sadly. ‘Ah, I see. You found the letter.’
‘Did you answer it?’
‘Gracious heavens, no! There was nothing I could do for him, except pray. It was perfectly obvious from the accounts in the newspapers that he was guilty of both bigamy and murder. It was more than ever important that the connexion between us should not be discovered. I don’t think I am betraying any confidence if I tell you that I expect some small preferment in the near future. This is the reward for my work and my efforts! I had no intention of letting Cuthbert deprive me of them. I did not answer that letter, but I prayed to God for him.’
‘How did Isobel Slatcher get her hands on it?’
‘Oh, nosing around as usual. The woman was a quite incorrigible poker into other people’s private affairs. I meant to burn the thing but she found it before I had time to.’
‘She realized what it meant?’
‘Oh yes. She was not unintelligent in some ways.’
‘And she tried to blackmail you with it?’
‘Blackmail me?’
‘Yes, for money, or a wedding ring, perhaps?’ Dover glanced slyly at the Vicar.
Mr Bonnington shook his head. ‘I wish it had been as straightforward as that.’
‘Well, what was she after?’
‘God alone knows!’ Mr Bonnington’s tone was not pious. ‘Power? Revenge? A place in the limelight. The woman was a fanatic, of course. Once she got an idea into her head there was no reasoning with her.’
‘And what idea did she get into her head where you and your brother’s letter were concerned?’
‘She was going to expose me!’ Mr Bonnington’s voice sank a good octave. ‘To the Bishop!’
MacGregor’s lips twitched, but Dover listened with something approaching sympathy. As a good bourgeois himself he could understand Mr Bonnington’s desire to keep himself respectable. Dover had been brought up in a household where what the neighbours might think really mattered. His family had had a disreputable uncle who had brought endless shame and distress to the rest of them. If they could have quietly murdered him …
‘Didn’t you try to talk her out of it?’ asked Dover. ‘ I should have thought what with you being a parson and her such a regular churchgoer …’
Mr Bonnington’s head shook slowly from side to side. ‘ I tried everything,’ he said. ‘ I offered her money, very tactfully of course, but that only made her worse.’ He gazed reproachfully at the ceiling. ‘I even suggested matrimony, but that wasn’t good enough for her. You would have thought, wouldn’t you, that marriage to a man in my position would have counted for something? Of course, I didn’t know the true facts about her birth then, but even so I was making a considerable sacrifice.’
‘She turned you down?’ asked Dover.
‘Flat,’ said Mr Bonnington. ‘Funnily enough I don’t think it was the murders or the bigamy, for that matter, which upset her so much. It was this Roman Catholic side of things that seemed to stick in her throat. I think I could have handled her if it hadn’t been for that For some reason she seemed to think Cuthbert was a Roman Catholic and that we both came from a Catholic family. You know what she was like about Roman Catholics – quite unreasonable, though, of course, her zeal for the Protestant faith on the whole had much to recommend it.’
‘When was she going to expose you?’
‘The day after she was shot. The Bishop was coming that Sunday for a confirmation. She told me when she was here on the Saturday night that she’d finally made her mind up and nothing could alter her decision. She said she was convinced it was her duty! I thought it was all up then. I turned to the only refuge I had left – prayer. I had just sunk to my knees to place my burden in the Saviour’s hands when I heard the shots. Such a divinely prompt answer!’
‘Wadderyemean?’ snapped Dover, suddenly coming to life. ‘When you heard the shots? Heard ’ em? You damned well fired ’em!’
‘I certainly did not!’ Mr Bonnington looked quite offended. ‘ I sincerely believe that I am God’s Chosen Instrument, but shooting somebody – no, that’s going too far. Besides, I’ve never fired a gun in my life.’
‘You shot her,’ repeated Dover obstinately.
‘Really, Inspector, if you go on making accusations like that I shall have to consider taking action against you for defamation of character. I am an ordained priest, the Vicar of the leading parish in Curdley. How dare you accuse me of firing a gun at Isobel Slatcher?’
‘You’re also the brother of a convicted multiple murderer!’ snarled Dover, hitting, with no compunction, well below the belt. ‘And I’m accusing you of attempting to murder Isobel Slatcher for one damned good reason – because you did!’
‘I did not!’ bellowed Mr Bonnington in a most unclerical explosion of temper.
‘You did!’ bawled Dover.
‘Liar!’
‘Murderer!’
At this point MacGregor, very tactfully, dropped his notebook with a resounding slap on the linoleum-covered floor. The two protagonists jumped slightly at the unexpected interruption and lost the thread of their argument.
After a moment’s heavy breathing Dover resumed his attack in a slightly more restrained manner.
‘Now, look here, Mr Bonnington,’ he said, ‘you’re only making things worse for yourself by taking up this attitude. I know you shot Isobel Slatcher, and I can prove it.’
‘I know how you got the gun,’ Dover pointed out. ‘You found it, didn’t you, in the church hall the night the Pie Gang raided it? It was,’ he sneered, ‘what you no doubt would call a heaven-sent opportunity, especially when you found that there were two bullets left in it. I suppose you never thought we’d be able to trace that gun, did you?’
‘I did not find any gun!’ The Vicar spoke through clenched teeth, though he was beginning to feel a little uneasy. Memories of how American detectives behaved on TV came flooding disturbingly into his mind. ‘ I tell you again – I don’t even know how to fire a gun. To the best of my knowledge I have never held a weapon of that nature in my hands in my entire life.’
Dover ignored him. ‘You’ve told us yourself how Isobel Slatcher was going to ruin your career by telling the Bishop you were a convicted murderer’s brother. You realized that the only way you could save yourself was by shutting her mouth’ – dramatic pause – ‘for ever! You made your preparations. You found the gun and kept it. Then you went to work on that gate in your garden wall – the one that leads directly into Church Lane. You made it so that it would open. Oh, I know you probably think it’s all rusted up again by now, but I don’t doubt we shall be able to find traces of oil in the lock.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ moaned Mr Bonnington.
‘Then on that Saturday night you made a last appeal to Isobel Slatcher here, in this room!’
‘It was in the study, sir,’ hissed MacGregor helpfully.
Dover ignored him too and swept magnificently on. ‘You offered her money, marriage! You begged for mercy! She wouldn’t listen!’ He was getting really worked up now. ‘You knew there was only one way out. You had to kill her that very night, before the Bishop could hear the scandalous news. Isobel Slatcher left the vicarage to go home. You seized the gun, you rushed out through the garden, opened the gate and stepped out into the darkness of Church Lane. When Isobel Slatcher came round the corner, you shot her twice in the head. You dashed back into the garden, pausing only to lock the gate behind you. You ran into the house and hurried out of your front door as if you’d heard the shots and were looking, like any decent dutiful citizen, to see what had happened. You thought she was dead, didn’t you? It must have been quite a shock when they told you she was still alive. You must have been quite worried for a bit, until you knew for certain that she would never regain consciousness. That left you with just one little problem, didn’t it?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about!’ Mr Bonnington held up his hands as if in prayer. ‘Dear Lord, this is like a nightmare! I must be going mad!’
‘Not you,’ snorted Dover. ‘You’ve kept your head very well, all things considered. Must run in the family,’ he added unkindly. ‘However, I’ll bet when you were pretending to examine Isobel after she’d been shot, you didn’t forget to have a look in her handbag, did you?’
What little colour was left in Mr Bonnington’s face drained away. ‘How did you know that?’ he gasped, running a trembling hand down his cheek.
‘You wanted that letter back; didn’t you? You killed Isobel, or tried to, but that incriminating letter was still kicking around, wasn’t it?’
‘All right, all right!’ screamed Mr Bonnington. ‘I did look to see if the letter was in her handbag! Dear God in heaven, wouldn’t you have done the same?’
‘And that’s why you kept hanging round Violet Slatcher, isn’t it?’ roared Dover with a sudden inspiration. ‘That’s why, after she was arrested, you were so damned keen to stay behind and lock the house up. You wanted to have a look for that letter.’
Mr Bonnington appeared hurt by this suggestion. ‘My main aim was to bring Christian consolation to poor Miss Slatcher in her hour of need. I am her spiritual pastor, after all.’
‘But you wanted to get that letter back.’
‘Of course I did! It was mine, wasn’t it? Isobel Slatcher stole it from me. And what if I did want to stay behind when the house was empty?’ he added testily. ‘It was the first real opportunity I’d had in all those months. Trust Violet to let anyone have a quiet look round! You’d have thought she’d had the crown jewels stowed away somewhere – suspicious old devil!’ He rose, not without dignity to his feet. ‘ But I repeat, I did not shoot Isobel!’
Dover glared at him. Blast the man – didn’t he know confession was good for the soul? ‘But Isobel Slatcher knew you were Cuthbert Boys’s brother and she was threatening to expose you – you don’t deny that, do you?’
‘No. I have no wish to speak ill of the dead but what you say is perfectly true. We shall probably never know what black motives prompted her to such a dreadful deed, but if she had not been, er, removed from the scene, she would, I have no doubt, have ruined my life.’
‘And you removed her,’ prompted Dover.
‘I repeat, I did not. It was an act of God.’
‘You found that gun,’ insisted Dover, ‘you opened up your garden gate and you shot her.’
‘No!’ thundered Mr Bonnington.
Dover’s scowl grew blacker. ‘All right,’ he threatened, ‘ if that’s the way you want it! I shall have to ask you to come down to the station with me.’
Mr Bonnington passed a pink tongue over his dry lips. ‘Are you arresting me?’ he asked in a choked voice.
Dover leered maliciously. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘ I’m just taking you in for questioning. It’ll be quieter down there.’
The Vicar slumped heavily in his chair. ‘You’re quite serious about this?’ he asked, running his finger round his dog collar. ‘It isn’t some kind of a practical joke? No, I suppose not. Well, in that case, Inspector, I think there is something which, under the circumstances, it is clearly my duty to tell you.’
‘Well, make it quick!’ bawled Dover. ‘ I haven’t got all day!’
Mr Bonnington bowed his head and placed one hand over his eyes. Having presumably received the Lord’s blessing on his intentions he looked up and smiled forgivingly at the chief inspector. Before he could make any utterance, however, the dining-room door was flung open with a crash which nearly made Dover jump out of his skin. He whipped round furiously to find Mrs Smallbone standing, arms akimbo, in the doorway.
She spoke to Mr Bonnington. ‘Save your breath,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell ’em myself.’ Her gaze swung contemptuously to Dover. ‘Call yourself a detective?’ she scoffed. ‘You don’t really believe this weak-kneed specimen would ever actually do anything, apart from mumbling a few prayers, do you? Just look at him! Does he look capable of shooting Isobel Slatcher?’
Mrs Smallbone was so dominating that Dover’s eyes automatically turned back to have another look at Mr Bonnington. He was now a picture of sheepish embarrassment.
Dover pulled himself together. Damn it, it was his blasted case, wasn’t it? ‘Well, if he didn’t shoot her,’ he demanded furiously, ‘who did?’
‘I did,’ said Mrs Smallbone calmly. ‘And if this snivelling coward could have been trusted to keep his mouth shut, you’d never have found out!’
Dover could have wept – or strangled Mrs Smallbone with his bare hands. How dare the bossy old hag come storming in here where she wasn’t wanted and confess to the attempted murder of Isobel Slatcher!
‘I suppose you were listening at the door?’ he blustered.
‘Naturally. What else do you expect me to do? A woman’s entitled, I hope, to look after her own interests and he’ – she nodded her head tartly at Mr Bonnington – ‘ he happens to be mine!’
‘Oh,’ said Dover, rather inadequately.
‘I suppose he didn’t tell you that we are engaged to be married? No, I thought not. Well, we are and have been’ – she glared scathingly at Mr Bonnington who avoided her eye – ‘these many months. That’s one little secret that Isobel Slatcher with all her poking and prying around didn’t find out. His lordship here didn’t want anybody to know until he got the promoti
on some other idiot had hinted he was in line for. Thought if he announced he was going to marry his housekeeper it might harm his chances. He didn’t want to marry me, mind you, but by Christmas last year things had gone a bit too far.’
Dover’s mouth dropped in unflattering astonishment. ‘Do you mean you and he were …?’
‘We were,’ agreed Mrs Smallbone grimly. ‘Even parsons are human, you know.’
‘And you’re saying,’ said Dover, still not sure he’d heard aright, ‘you’re saying it wasn’t him who tried to kill Isobel Slatcher, but you?’
‘That’s right I’m confessing. Not that I’m sorry for it – she deserved everything that was coming to her, nasty, interfering little bitch! I heard everything that was going on in here. Another couple of seconds and he’d have blabbed the whole story to you. Anything to save his own skin, the yellow-bellied rat!’
‘Here!’ said Dover, brightening up a bit. ‘D’you mean he’s known all along that you tried to kill Isobel?’ The words ‘accessory before and after the fact’ were almost legible in Dover’s piggy little eyes. At least he’d be able to get Bonnington on something.
‘Not him!’ sneered Mrs Smallbone. ‘There’s none so deaf as those that won’t hear! He’s all for a quiet life, he is. Doesn’t like a lot of fuss and bother. It upsets him. Soon as Isobel told him she’d found that letter and that she was going to tell the Bishop about him – and all his congregation here too – he comes rushing to me. I knew if anybody was going to save the situation it’d have to be me.’
‘She did it for love, Inspector.’ Mr Bonnington leaned forward. ‘Surely that will count in her favour?’
‘Love?’ Mrs Smallbone laughed rather unpleasantly. ‘Don’t you kid yourself! I’ve lived in Curdley all my life and I’ve not had an easy time of it, I can tell you. I’ve never had a chance and I’ve had to watch others, no better than I am, getting themselves fixed up nice and comfortable like. I’m entitled to a bit of luck after all these years. And I’d have made a good Vicar’s wife – don’t make any mistake about that. Then Isobel Slatcher had to find that letter. Well, I wasn’t going to see all my hopes go down the drain without putting up a fight for ’ em. Isobel thought she was going to ruin him. She didn’t realize she was going to ruin me as well.’ She looked down her nose at Dover. ‘ She might have been a bit more careful if she had.’