The Wychford Murders

by Paula Gosling

  Basil nodded. ‘So be it.’

  ‘Send him in, Jeffers.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mark stood up behind his littered desk as the butler showed Luke into the office. ‘Ah. Good morning, Chief Inspector. Take a seat, won’t you? Basil, this is Chief Inspector Abbott. Inspector, my stepfather, Basil Taubman. He was in London when you were last here.’

  Basil rose from his chair and came across the room to give Abbott a firm, dry handshake. ‘Nice to meet the man in charge, at last. I was apparently only considered important enough to be interviewed by one of the local men. Unfortunately, I could offer very little in the way of assistance.’ He indicated a chair. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’ If Abbott hadn’t known Mark Peacock was the owner of the manor, he would have assumed it was Taubman’s. He had the naturally adroit manner of a seigneur – but there had been tension in his handshake, and a nerve flickered near one eye. The man was just holding on.

  Abbott sat down. The butler reappeared, apparently in response to a hidden summons from Mark.

  ‘Coffee for three, please, Jeffers.’

  Abbott raised an eyebrow as the butler withdrew. ‘That’s a new addition to your establishment, isn’t it? I don’t recall a butler on your staff list.’

  ‘That’s right. Some good has come out of this ghastly tragedy,’ Basil volunteered. ‘Mark is now in full charge of the estate, and we have begun our planned expansion of the manor to a conference centre. Of the better kind, of course. Very discreet, nothing gaudy or commercial, you understand. We’d never do anything to spoil this perfectly beautiful place. Never. And, of course, primary to that plan is establishing an efficient staff for the manor. Jeffers comes to us very highly recommended. We have been interviewing for some while, of course . . . ’ He paused without completing the sentence.

  ‘We have hopes of opening next spring,’ Mark said, quickly. ‘Mother would have approved of Jeffers, I’m sure. We’ll be able to take more time over the selection of the rest. Of course, I’ll want Jennifer to have a full say about the staff we hire.’

  Both Abbott and Taubman stared at him, startled. ‘Jennifer Eames?’ Abbott finally managed. ‘Dr Jennifer Eames?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We’re engaged,’ Mark said. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you knew that, Inspector. Obviously we’ll have to wait a decent interval before the wedding, but that’s no reason why she can’t become involved in the work of the manor, is it?’ He seemed very pleased with himself.

  ‘You hadn’t said anything to me about this, Mark,’ Taubman said, with a rather fixed smile.

  ‘I can’t see what difference it makes. It’s just a personal decision. It won’t affect our arrangement, Basil – merely enhance it. She’ll simply be taking over Mother’s role.’ He seemed genuinely perplexed at the effect his statement was having on the other two men. ‘We do need a woman’s touch here, you know. With Mother gone – surely this is an obvious solution?’

  ‘Yes, well – if that’s your decision,’ Basil said. ‘I agree we have to get on, Mark. We made that decision together the day after your mother died and we must stick to it. I’m sure Mabel would have approved.’

  Abbott raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? I was under the impression that Mrs Taubman didn’t approve of Dr Eames or the conference centre idea.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Mark said, quickly. ‘She was growing very fond of Jennifer. It was just a matter of their getting to know one another better. As for the project, she had agreed only the day before her death to the plan going ahead. She had even spoken to Heatherington, the bank manager, about it. That very morning, in fact.’

  ‘Ah, I didn’t know that. Thank you.’ Abbott paused as the butler re-entered with a coffee tray and served them all, only resuming when the door had closed once again. ‘I believe the coroner has released Mrs Taubman’s body for burial?’

  ‘Yes, the funeral will be on Monday,’ Basil said, and sighed heavily, taking his coffee over to the window, where he gazed out on to the lawn that led down to the river. ‘I still find it hard to grasp that she’s dead. Being in London as I was, it seems that she’s simply gone shopping or something, be back any minute, walk in the door, demanding tea and all the latest gossip from London. I haven’t actually seen her, of course. I suppose that will bring it home to me. I expect the anger and the grief will come then. Presently, I am only rather numb. He bowed his head for a moment, and took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Basil, please . . . don’t.’ Mark’s voice was shaky.

  ‘What?’ His stepfather turned, startled. ‘Oh, sorry, Mark . . . didn’t mean to upset you, my boy.’ He glanced at Abbott and noted his expression. It seemed to embarrass him. ‘I’m not unfeeling, Inspector, wouldn’t want you to think that, not at all. But it’s no use pretending that Mabel and I were love’s young dream. We met late in life, and I think we were more good companions than anything else. Yes, that’s it. Good companions. I’m afraid truly savage grief is more a burden for the young than the old.’ His eyes rested affectionately on Mark, whose earlier composure had begun to crack, slightly. ‘As one grows old, death becomes less daunting. It even holds a kind of strange fascination. One is more or less prepared to lose the people one loves. Mabel was older than I am, and not at all strong . . . I knew our time together would be short. But not so cruelly short.’ He suddenly looked angry, and his knuckles whitened on the cup he held. After a moment he cleared his throat, and spoke with an obvious effort. ‘I hope I made it a happy time for her.’

  ‘I see.’ Abbott would not have called Basil Taubman ‘old’, rather ‘well-preserved’. His hair was beautifully cut, his clothes were immaculately fitted to a well-shaped body, and while he was not handsome taken feature by feature, there was about him an air of style and assurance, almost arrogance. Abbott thought he would do well in the conference centre business, graciously and subtly intimidating the common folk. He certainly seemed utterly at home here in Peacock Manor. ‘We contacted the Met and asked them to inform you of your wife’s death. I understand they found you at your club the next morning. You had spent the night there, I believe?’

  ‘It was a shock,’ Taubman recalled, with evident embarrassment. ‘They actually had to summon one of the members who’s a doctor to minister to me. Gave me something or other, calmed me down. I made a fool of myself and they made quite a fuss over me, I’m afraid. I’ve never made up my mind whether that is one of the blessings or one of the drawbacks of a club.’

  ‘Yes, of course. What time had you come in?’

  ‘The night before, you mean? Let me see. Some time around ten, I believe. I’d had a meal out with clients, lingered a bit afterwards, but I wanted a decent night because there was rather an important meeting the next morning. As it was, of course, I missed it.’ His tone was not aggrieved exactly, rather over-patient, as if he were trying not to mind.

  ‘I see. Thank you.’ Abbott got out his notebook and wrote in it. ‘Can anyone verify that you were, in fact, in the club all night?’

  ‘I have no idea. One of the waiters served me a brandy and soda, and then I went straight up to bed. Took my usual sleeping pill, went out like a light. Always do.’

  Mark Peacock was growing restless. ‘Just what is it you’re trying to get at, Chief Inspector? Surely you don’t suspect Basil of killing my mother?’

  ‘They always suspect the husband or the wife, as the case may be. Classic. Isn’t that so, Inspector?’ Basil gave him a conspiratorial glance, born, no doubt, of many a midnight detective story.

  ‘Murders often tend to be family affairs,’ Abbott agreed, neutrally.

  ‘But Basil was in London,’ Mark persisted. ‘That’s almost two hours away by train, three by car – and Basil doesn’t drive.’

  ‘Oh?’ Abbott looked at Taubman in surprise.

  ‘Never felt the need,’ Taubman said, airily. ‘Always plenty of cabs in London, friends with cars to
meet one at the station should one venture down to the country . . . ’

  ‘Basil’s blind in one eye,’ Mark said. ‘Claims it was a flying champagne cork, but it’s a war wound. He was a hero in Aden.’

  ‘Now, now . . .’ Basil demurred, but he looked pleased.

  ‘Anyway,’ Mark went on, ‘there are no trains at that hour.’

  ‘At what hour, Mr Peacock?’

  ‘Why, midnight. Mother died at midnight, didn’t she?’

  Abbott looked at his notebook. ‘You got back home at what time, Mr Peacock? What time, exactly?’

  ‘Why, I don’t think I could say, exactly,’ Mark said, with an air of surprise. ‘Surely your records would show when I called through to the station? I hadn’t been home many minutes before I . . . found her.’

  ‘You left Dr Eames around eleven. Your call to the station came at twenty past midnight. What did you do during the hour or so between?’

  Mark flushed, slightly. ‘I drove around.’

  ‘Just – drove around?’

  Mark’s chin came up. ‘Well, she probably told you, anyway. Jennifer and I had a bit of a disagreement, lovers’ tiff sort of thing. I was a bit het-up and got rid of it on the back roads.’

  ‘Rather dangerous to drive when you’re angry,’ Luke said, mildly.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Mark said, stiffly. ‘Anyway, no alibi, apparently. Sorry about that.’ He swallowed. ‘Isn’t . . . can’t they determine times of deaths, scientifically? I thought I heard someone say she died around midnight. I thought it said that, in the newspaper.’

  ‘You’ve read the newspapers, then?’

  ‘They tried to hide them from me, but I found them all right,’ Mark said, bitterly. ‘The papers all seem to be under the impression that my mother was the third victim of this “Cotswold Butcher” who killed the other two women.’

  ‘And do you think that?’

  ‘Dear God, how would I know?’ Mark demanded. ‘Obviously it would be preferable to thinking Basil or I did it, although the thought of my mother being . . . of meeting . . . of running . . . of some bastard’s dirty hands on her . . . ’ He faltered, turned away. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Can’t you see you’re upsetting the boy?’ Basil demanded, angrily. ‘Is there any need for this, now?’

  Abbott glanced at him in some surprise. The ‘boy’ he was defending so strongly was thirty-nine years old. ‘There will be a need for questions until we have caught the killer, Mr Taubman. Surely you can’t want to stop us doing that?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Taubman turned away, went over to a tantalus on a sidetable and helped himself to brandy, adding it to his coffee. ‘But equally, if Mabel was the victim of this “Cotswold Butcher”, which she obviously was, then it can’t have anything to do with Mark or myself. It is, in the end, much the same as if she were struck down by a hit and run driver. We have to live with her death and her absence, Chief Inspector. Surely we shouldn’t have to live with unfounded suspicion as well?’

  Abbott closed his notebook, put it in an inside pocket with his pen, drank the last of his coffee and stood up. ‘I’m afraid you will, Mr Taubman. If not mine, then that of the newspapers or your neighbours or one another. It is simply a fact of death. It will be finished when I’ve done my job. Meanwhile, grit your teeth and bear it. That’s what I do.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘Oh, my God, they’re back,’ Gordon Sinclair said, peering through the window, his hands frozen on the pottery he’d been re-arranging.

  ‘Who?’ asked Barry Treat, from the door to the workroom.

  ‘The police.’

  Barry made a small, keening sound and sank on to a stool. ‘They’ve come to arrest me, I know they have,’ he said, in tones of dreadful finality. First the shock of finding poor Win like that, then being questioned as if he were a criminal in that ghastly police station, then more questions here, and then, then, that terrible time at home, when they’d gone through Win’s room and all her papers. Persecution, that’s what it was, absolute persecution. And still it wasn’t over, for here they were again. He just couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t.

  ‘Well, if they have come to arrest you, they’re going an odd way about it,’ Gordon said, briskly. ‘They’ve gone into Graham Moyle’s studio.’

  ‘He’s been ill, too, you know. Or he says he has. Hiding under the bedclothes, more like.’ Relief and jealousy sharpened Barry’s tongue. ‘He was one of them, you know. One of her “conquests”. The energy of the girl, quite phenomenal. Not that it showed around here, goodness knows. I was always having to push her, the cow. She was lazy, lazy, lazy when it came to work.’

  Gordon turned his back on the sun-drenched scene of Courtyard with Important Visitors, and regarded his small partner. ‘Why do you think they’d arrest you? You didn’t kill Win.’

  ‘I could have. There were times I cheerfully could have,’ Barry said.

  ‘Wishing isn’t doing,’ Gordon observed. ‘If that were the case, they’d arrest me, too. Do you suppose they’ve found out about the insurance?’

  ‘Probably. God knows, it’s motive enough. Eighty thousand, Gordon. I still can’t believe it. What are we going to do?’

  Gordon smiled. ‘It’s not going to change our life one little bit,’ he said, in cruel imitation of a pools winner. Barry giggled appreciatively. ‘We’ll leave it in the bank for a while to gain interest, then pop it into some sound investments. After all, love, we’re happy here, aren’t we? Doing our little thing together?’

  ‘Oh yes, we are,’ Barry said, fervently. Memories of youthful squalor in London had not faded. Nor was he unobservant of his own fading attractions. Finding Gordon was the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him. Now that Win was gone, there was dear Gordon to look after him. And he was sensitive – he needed looking after. At least Win had understood that, whatever her failings. He was a genius – she’d said so. She’d also said other things, from time to time, but he disregarded those. If only she and Gordon had got on better. Dear Gordon. He looked with affection at his partner and lover. The wonderful line of his neck flowing into those square shoulders, the long arms and strong hands, the way his hair curled. Quite inspirational. Perhaps it was time to try the portrait sculpture again. After all, with the insurance money, they were safe whether the shop succeeded or not. He’d show that pompous Hannah Putnam that she was not the only ‘artist’ in clay around here. Excitement flooded him. He’d start immediately.

  He started to speak, to tell Gordon of his plan, then thought better of it. Make it a surprise. Gordon would be pleased when he saw the result. And, anyway, he was busy with all those insurance papers now.

  Best not to disturb him.

  ‘Graham Moyle?’

  The tall, thin man turned, startled. ‘Yes.’ He was a Viking Christ-figure, blond, bearded – with the high cheekbones of an ascetic, and the full-lipped mouth of a sensualist. ‘Can I help you?’

  Luke produced his warrant card. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions. I presume you’re well enough now?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was disgruntled to discover their identity, but there was no place to run in the crowded little studio.

  Luke and Paddy looked around, and found clear places on the benches against which to lean. There were no chairs, and there were shards of coloured glass everywhere, twinkling, glinting, even crunching underfoot. Graham Moyle’s hands were heavily scarred.

  ‘You do photographic work, too?’ Paddy asked, nodding towards a shelf on one wall that contained several expensive cameras, both large and small.

  ‘I take pictures of stained glass wherever I go, here and on the Continent,’ Moyle explained. ‘In fact, I’ve just done a book on it which will be coming out soon. And I like to take pictures of the sites where I’m restoring or replacing old glass. It helps a lot.’

  ‘I see.’ Paddy seemed satisfied.<
br />
  ‘You knew Win Frenholm well, I understand,’ Luke said.

  ‘As well as anyone knew her, I suppose,’ Graham Moyle acknowledged.

  ‘You’re not distressed by her death?’

  ‘Of course I am, but what’s the point of blubbering all over the place?’ the blond young man said, and turned back to his work. ‘Look, do you mind if I get on with this while we talk? I’ve got pretty badly behind what with being sick and interruptions and all, and the delivery date is the end of the week.’ He reached for some crimson glass and began to mark it in curves with a felt-tipped pen. He then followed the markings with a glass cutter, and broke the resulting ‘petals’ free, one by one, with a quick sure tap from underneath. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Hand me that blue pot over there, would you, please?’

  Luke looked around, but could see no blue pot.

  ‘On the table in front of you,’ Graham Moyle said. ‘That peacock blue glass – we call single-colour glass “pot”.’

  ‘Ah. Sorry.’ Gingerly, Luke picked up the sheet of glass, which caught the light from outside and glowed in his grasp.

  ‘Thanks.’ Moyle worked swiftly and smoothly. Blue petals followed the crimson, until he had a small pile of each to hand, next to a stack of gold-coloured glass circles. He then reached for a reel of grey metal that was hung from a nail on the wall, unwound a length, and cut it with a sharp knife. He tossed the knife down on the table beside the glass shards, and then began straightening the length of lead. First he smoothed it by hand, then he bent each end at a right angle, and placed one in a vice while still holding the other. As he began to stretch the lead, Paddy moved over casually to the table, and looked down at the knife which lay there. He glanced over at Luke and raised an eyebrow, nodding almost imperceptibly.

  Graham Moyle looked up at that moment, and caught the exchange. He flushed deeply, his fair skin blazing up in an instant. ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said, hoarsely. ‘That’s just a cut-down palette knife, good for lead, but not much else.’