The Winter Garden Mystery

by Carola Dunn

  “Right, Chief. He says Mr. Parslow’s vally, Thomkins, popped into his pantry for a drop of port after packing for Mr. Parslow. A bit after ten, it was. He remembers acos they was talking about the packing only taking an hour or thereabouts, Mr. Parslow being so easygoing. Seems Thomkins’s last master was a fusspot as never could make up his mind. Thomkins agrees it was just after ten.”

  “So Parslow has no alibi from ten until eleven thirty,” Alec mused, “and I have only his word for eleven thirty since Scotland Yard fails to impress his mother. Not that I’d believe any alibi she gave him. If he’d been with his sister he’d have said so, for her sake as well as his own. Did any of the servants see him during that time, Ernie?”

  “No, Chief. They keeps pretty much to their own quarters after dinner, even the personal servants, unless they’re rung for.”

  “No maid taking round hot-water bottles?”

  “Her ladyship don’t hold with hot-water bottles.”

  “Curses upon her ladyship! Go on. No, wait a bit,” Alec said, drawing up in front of the smithy. “There’s no light visible, but just pop round the back and see if Moss’s lorry is there.”

  Piper popped, and returned to announce no lorry, no lights.

  They reached the Cheshire Cheese and went up to Alec’s room long before Piper came to the end of his list of those who had seen nothing and nobody.

  No one had seen any of the family after ten o’clock. No one had seen Owen Morgan. The powder old Bligh took for his rheumatics made him sleep so soundly he wouldn’t hear a herd of wild elephants, let alone Morgan leaving the cottage. The other three under-gardeners had girlfriends in the village; their only interest in Grace was to tease Morgan about her.

  No one had been down in the village after six, when the housemaid whose day off it was had come in.

  No one had seen Grace come in, but she could have gone up to her room unseen. She always returned on time because she liked her job and didn’t want to lose it. Though she had worked in a shop in Whitbury for a few months after leaving school, five or six years ago, she had been glad to get a position at the Hall. It was nearer her father but at least she didn’t have to go home to him every evening. As it was, he took most of her pay and expected her to cook, clean, and launder for him on her days off. She seldom had a chance to go into Whitbury to shop or to the pictures as the others did.

  “A right bastard he sounds,” Piper opined, “but he was sitting pretty. He wouldn’t want to do away with her.”

  In spite of her unpleasant home life, Grace was always cheerful and helpful. She was popular with her fellow-servants, though mildly envied by the young and indulgently frowned upon by her elders for her “way with the fellows.” The only indoor menservants were the butler and two valets, but she flirted with the postman, the butcher’s boy, the grocer’s and baker’s deliverymen. No one believed her relationship with the young master had gone beyond a flirtation. The news of her pregnancy had come as a shock and general opinion in the servants’ hall blamed the foreigner, the Welsh gardener, not Mr. Sebastian.

  In fact, everyone but Bligh was so sure Morgan was the murderer, they couldn’t understand what Scotland Yard was doing at Occles Hall.

  “Is Miss Dalrymple wrong this time, Chief?” Piper asked, his faith shaken.

  “Not she. Parslow was having an affair with Grace all right. Tell me, were Grace’s things missing from her room? Never mind,” he said as Piper’s face fell, “we’ll find out tomorrow.”

  All the same, Tom would never have missed such an obvious question. If Grace had left her belongings behind, why did everyone assume she had run away? If they were gone, someone in the household had removed them, someone who knew she was dead and who wanted people to think she’d run away.

  “That’s all very well,” Alec said slowly, “but what made them believe she had run away when she liked her job and they didn’t know she was in trouble? They said she was always cheerful?”

  “Always till the last couple of weeks, Chief. One of the housemaids—lessee—Edna her name is, Grace’s best friend like, she says she seemed a bit mopish. This Edna asked what was wrong and Grace said her pa was being even awkwarder’n usual. She didn’t like being asked, though, so she tried to behave like normal; only when she disappeared, Edna told the rest she’d been in the dumps.”

  “Poor kid.” For the first time Alec was beginning to see Grace as a real person, in some ways an admirable person despite her fall from grace (and that was a bloody awful pun he’d being trying not to make). With an altogether obnoxious father, she had somehow managed to grow up sunny-tempered and kind-hearted, and competent to boot. Whatever her mistakes, she hadn’t deserved to die.

  He wanted badly to nail her killer. Daisy expected no less. The trouble was, unless he got hold of some real evidence soon, the A.C. was going to call him home. The Met couldn’t spare a chief inspector for a two-month-old murder that the locals hadn’t even started to investigate properly.

  At least he’d see Owen Morgan released. There wasn’t a shred of real evidence against him, and the Parslows had quite as much motive.

  “I’d like to get this cleared up before the magistrate’s hearing on Monday,” he said to Piper. “Unless we find something definite against Morgan, he ought to be let out without going to court, for the sake of the reputation of the local police, and police in general. If we can arrest someone else that’ll be all to the good, but if we can’t manage it, I want to be sure we’ve left no stone unturned.”

  “Not digging up the garden!” said Piper, aghast.

  “It may come to that. The murder weapon may be buried there. We won’t get prints by now, but just knowing what was used might help. But I hope we shan’t need to, and if we do you can supervise a crew of local officers.” He grinned as Piper breathed again. “I wonder whether the locals have dug up George Brown’s traces in Whitbury? It’s just possible he had met Grace before if she worked there, but it was rather a long time ago. I’d better go and ring up Sergeant Shaw and … .”

  “There’s one more thing, Chief.”

  “Yes?”

  “The housekeeper, Mrs. Twitchell, I saw her last and mostly what she said was just the same as the others. Then she asked was it only that night we was interested in, ’cos a week before she saw Mr. Goodman talking to Grace.”

  “Goodman deals with the servants’ pay and so on,” Alec said impatiently. “He must talk to all of them quite often.”

  “But this was different, Chief,” Piper persisted. “She says he was talking ever so serious, and then Grace laughed at him and ran away, so I thought maybe he fancied a bit of slap and tickle and she turned him down and he got mad and … .”

  “Bloody hell, another suspect! Just what I need. All right, Ernie, it could be important. We’ll have to follow it up tomorrow. Right now, you go and open your ears in the public bar. I’m going to telephone Sergeant Shaw.”

  On his way down the narrow stairs, Alec met the plump landlady puffing up. “I were just coming to fetch you, sir,” she said. “You’re wanted on the telephone.”

  He thanked her and squeezed past. The telephone hung on the wall in a tiny booth at the back of the lobby. Putting the dangling receiver to his ear, he announced himself into the mouthpiece.

  “It’s Tom, Chief. We got him. Well, nearly.”

  “George Brown? What do you mean, nearly?”

  “A Sergeant Shaw rung me up from Chester, said he’d tried to get hold of you but you wasn’t there. His laddies tracked Brown to one of his customers in some little town up there … .”

  “Whitbury. As a matter of interest, what does he travel in?”

  “Ready-to-wear ladies’ corsets, Chief.” Tom snickered.

  “Great Scott! That explains why he wasn’t trying to sell to the village shop and why he didn’t announce his line to the people here. Poor chap, I bet he catches a lot of ragging. Shaw found out what company he works for?”

  “The Clover Corset Company, known t
o bosom friends as CCC.” The sergeant’s cackle crackled down the wire. “Their head office is in Ealing. I phoned ’em up and talked to the top bloke in the sales department. Brown’s territory’s the Northwest. Seems he’s pretty free to ramble around, hunting down new customers. He’s not married and he only gets back to London every couple of weeks, but he rings up on Saturday evening to report in. So they’ll find out tomorrow night where he is and let us know.”

  “You told them not to warn him we want to see him?”

  “’Course, Chief, wotcha take me for?”

  Alec smiled at his injured tone. “I beg your pardon, Tom.”

  “And I asked ’em to telephone the Chester police if I’m not here.”

  The broad hint broadened Alec’s smile. “Well, if Brown’s up north, you’re finished in town, and I need you. Hop on a train in the morning.”

  “I c’d come tonight, Chief. There must be a night train.”

  “You are married, Tom.”

  “Worse luck. Proper cramps me style, does the old trouble and strife.”

  “I hadn’t noticed it.” If Grace had had a way with the fellows, Tom had a way with the ladies, or at least with a certain class of females. Nonetheless, despite his use of derogatory rhyming slang, Alec knew he was deeply devoted to the equally mountainous Mrs. Tring, from whom he was too often reft by the demands of his profession. “Tomorrow will do. Let me know the time and I’ll send Piper to meet you at Crewe.”

  “Ta, Chief. Miss Dalrymple all right?”

  “Miss Dalrymple thrives on trouble and strife,” Alec said acidly. Her annoyance at his repeated warning against meddling had not escaped him.

  He rang off.

  The sound of voices from the bars was increasing as men came in for a pint after work. Glancing into the public bar, Alec saw Piper sit down with a couple of farmhands. The youthful detective in his brown serge suit looked out of place among collarless, stubble-chinned labourers, and Alec doubted he’d be able to make himself at home as Tom would.

  He shrugged. He himself would be still less welcome there. He went into the bar-parlour next door, which was where Grace and George Brown had had their tête-à-tête.

  The small, cosy room, all polished wood and brass, fell silent as he entered. Not only was he a stranger, he’d have bet a month’s pay every soul in the place knew he was a police officer. It was inevitable in so small a village, he supposed, but it meant he had little hope of getting anything out of them short of formal questioning. He wasn’t likely to do any better than Ernie.

  “Good evening,” he said to the room in general, crossing to the bar.

  A pair of moderately prosperous farmers in country tweeds and leggings nodded to him and returned to a discussion of the prospective price of spring lamb. A man seated alone at the bar ignored him after a glance. A middle-aged couple sitting by the fire answered his greeting. He recognized them as the Taylors, proprietors of the Village Store where he had replenished his tobacco pouch.

  “What will you have?” he asked them genially.

  After consulting her husband with a doubtful look, Mrs. Taylor said, “I wouldn’t say no to a sherry, Chief Inspector. Just a small one, mind, and thank you kindly.”

  “The name’s Fletcher. What’s yours?”

  “Half of bitter, thanks, Mr. Fletcher.”

  The improbably blond barmaid came through from the public, which shared the long bar-counter. He gave his order and carried the two tankards and a glass over to the Taylors’ table.

  They proved friendly, perfectly willing to talk about the murder, but quite unable to help. Their custom was to call in at the Cheshire Cheese for a drop before dinner (no proletarian tea for the Taylors). They very seldom came back later, preferring to listen to the wireless when there was not stock-taking or accounts to be dealt with. On the evening of December 13, as usual on a Wednesday, they had been in the shop restocking shelves, but the blinds had been down and they had seen nothing in the street.

  “It’s no picnic running the only shop in the village,” said Mr. Taylor impressively. “People expect to find everything under the sun, and then there’s the Post Office, too. Well, we’d best be off, Doreen. Take my word for it, Mr. Fletcher, you’re wasting your time. It was the Welshman did it.”

  Alec had much the same result from the less amicable farmers and the solitary fellow at the bar, a clerk who worked in Whitbury and lived with his parents in Occleswich. Three or four others came and went without adding to his store of information.

  “Likely you’ll do better after you’ve ate, sir,” the barmaid told him when she summoned him to dinner. “There’s them as comes in early and them as comes in late.”

  “And never the twain shall meet,” Alec said resignedly. “Perhaps you can help me with a couple more points, Rita. I know you wouldn’t have seen anything outside, but did you notice whether anyone left at the same time as Grace, or thereabouts?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir, I’m sure. There was people coming and going same as usual, and I only noticed Grace ‘cos she gen’rally stayed till closing.”

  “Did her father come in at all?”

  “Don’t think so, sir, though I wouldn’t swear to it.”

  That agreed with the local police report. Moss told Dunnett he came home late; Grace had left his tea in the oven and he did not see her.

  “What about the commercial traveller? He was a stranger and supposed to be staying here, so you might have been aware of his movements. When did he leave the bar?”

  “Oh, yes, he did stay till closing, I ’member that. He were knocking back the whisky like water. After Grace went off, he talked to some others, but he kept taking out his watch. It seemed a bit odd to me, seeing he’d booked a room. Must’ve been after the bars closed he picked up his bags and scarpered. I were cleaning up and I din’t see him again.”

  “Do you by any chance recall who else he talked to?”

  Rita’s eyes went blank as she thought. “No, sir, I’m that sorry.”

  “Never mind, you’ve been a great help.”

  “Well, sir, if it weren’t Owen Morgan done it, I’m sure I hopes you catches whoever it were, or we’re none of us safe in our beds.”

  As Alec crossed the lobby to the dining room, Petrie came down the stairs in his dinner-jacket. Probably Petrie, as was rumoured of his class, would dress for dinner in a clearing in the jungle, whereas Alec hadn’t even brought his dinner-jacket with him to the wilds of Cheshire. He suddenly felt underdressed, but after all he was dining with Piper, who undoubtedly didn’t even own such esoteric garb.

  “Hullo, Fletcher,” Petrie greeted him. “Heading for the old feeding trough? Mind if I join you?”

  “I’d be delighted, except that my young officer may have a report to deliver while we eat.”

  “Right-oh. Don’t want to butt in, old man.” But Petrie looked disappointed. He was a sociable chap, and pleasant enough when he forgot to stand on the dignity of his father’s rank.

  With a touch of malice, Alec decided to see whether the Honourable Phillip would decline to dine with a mere constable. “Here comes Piper now,” he said, turning at the sound of footsteps behind him. “If his luck was as bad as mine and he has nothing to tell me, you’re welcome to sit with us.”

  Petrie’s dismay was obvious, but he rallied and said stoutly, “Jolly good. I say, young fellow, anything to report?”

  Piper’s mouth dropped open. “N-no, sir,” he stammered, then turned gloomily to Alec. “I mean, no, sir, I didn’t get nothing useful. The ones as come in early, they’re the ones as is hen-pecked, as you might say. They stops by for their pint afore their tea acos once they’ve gone home, they’re not let out again, so they wasn’t here when Grace was.”

  Alec laughed. “I drew a blank, too,” he consoled. “With luck we’ll do better after dinner. I’d really rather not have to do a house-to-house.”

  They went into the dining room. At first Piper was a bit overawed by their dinner-jacketed c
ompanion, but when Petrie started talking about football and cricket, he joined in eagerly. In fact, he knew far more about sport than did Alec, who was left to enjoy his meal in peace.

  Afterwards, Petrie accompanied Alec to the bar-parlour. “A sound chap, that constable of yours,” he said, as they made their way to the bar. The room was now too full for their arrival to create a hush. “What are you drinking, old man?”

  “Allow me,” Alec said. “Tonight’s on expenses. All I have to do is point out to my Super that a few rounds come cheaper than overtime for a horde of uniformed locals knocking on doors.”

  “B-and-s, then. Thanks, old chap. Don’t worry, I shan’t get in the way of your enquiries.”

  But Alec’s enquiries, though watered by several rounds, still failed to bear fruit. Everyone denied having noticed the movements of either Grace or George Brown, let alone having spoken with the traveller. Nor had they seen anyone in the street other than the cronies with whom they had left the pub. None of them even claimed to have seen the despised Welshman.

  By half-past nine, Alec was resigned to a wasted evening. Having made a pint of stout last till then, he ordered a whisky from the landlord—as unobservant as any of his customers—who had joined Rita behind the bar. Glass in hand he turned to survey the room, hoping to spot someone he hadn’t yet spoken to.

  Then Daisy walked in, with Ben Goodman limping after her.

  From her face Alec knew at once that she had news, and that from her point of view it was bad news. And what the deuce did she mean by going out alone with one of the suspects? Had she no common sense whatsoever?

  Throughout a sombre dinner at the Hall, Daisy had been wondering how to convey her news to Alec without broadcasting it via the telephone operator. She suspected he’d be less than pleased if she delayed until the morning. Of course, having proclaimed her right to stay unaccompanied at the inn, she could hardly cavil at entering the place alone. It was the walk down to the village in the dark she didn’t look forward to. After all, a girl had been killed out there quite recently. Bobbie’s unexplained absence didn’t prove Bobbie had done the foul deed. Some maniac might be lying in wait for another victim.