by Clara Benson
FIFTEEN
Lady Cardew was far too impatient to have noticed whether Margaret Tipping had been at the fête all day. As Elisabeth informed Inspector Jameson, she had stood on the cake stall for some of the time, but of course as the main organizer of the fête she had had other things to see to as well, and had frequently had to hurry off to resolve some difficulty or other, leaving Margaret to hold the fort alone. Mrs. Tipping’s exact whereabouts at the presumed time of the murder therefore remained a mystery—at least until someone else could be found to give her an alibi. The police had also spoken to Daniel Tyler, who swore on his oath that Norman Tipping and Kathie Montgomery had been telling the truth, and that he had met them only a matter of seconds after the gun was heard to go off. Since Tom Tipping’s body had been found about two hundred yards farther along the path, it would have been almost impossible for them to have done it then. Nothing the police could say would shake Tyler in this story, and so they were reluctantly forced to conclude that either he had made a genuine mistake or he was telling the truth.
On Thursday morning, frowning over the latest entries in his notebook, Inspector Jameson set off along Dead Man’s Path. He was going to speak to Norman Tipping—by arrangement this time. In the absence of any better theories Tipping was still the main suspect, even though Daniel Tyler’s evidence seemed to let him out. Still, Jameson wanted to follow up every lead, and he was determined to find out more about the relationship between Norman and his father.
As Jameson walked, he mulled over the case. The timing of the gunshot was a stumbling-block, certainly, and seemed to throw the field wide open. Of course, there was one possibility, a certain interpretation of events, that would put Norman firmly back into the picture, but Jameson pushed it to the back of his mind and told himself that the absence of a weapon made that possibility highly unlikely. He was uncomfortably aware that he was willing Norman Tipping to be innocent—since Norman’s guilt would, of course, implicate Kathie Montgomery in the murder—but even so, he was not prepared to investigate that particular avenue until he was forced to. Being as he was a man of the utmost integrity, Jameson was starting to think that he ought to withdraw from the case, since it was becoming abundantly clear to him that he could not be totally impartial. It would be difficult, however, since he had promised Sergeant Primm that he would do what he could, and he was not one to break a promise. Very well, he should go through the motions of the job as conscientiously as possible, present Primm with the evidence he had collected, and then retire to London and let Primm do what he would with it.
He arrived at Norman Tipping’s house and was admitted by Alice Hopwell. Inside, the place was fitted out in accordance with the taste of a man who had no time for fripperies, and Jameson could not help wondering whether Kathie Montgomery would feel at home here. Mrs. Hopwell showed him into a large sitting-room, where he found Norman Tipping standing by the window, engaged in watching two dogs fighting outside. Tipping turned round and greeted him as he entered.
‘Will there be anything else, Mr. Tipping?’ said Alice Hopwell.
‘No, thank you, Mrs. Hopwell,’ he said distantly, and she nodded and went out. Jameson shortly afterwards heard the front door shut as she left.
‘So then, inspector,’ said Norman Tipping. ‘I gather the police are no further forward in discovering who carried out this appalling crime.’
By the tone of his voice he might have been talking about some story he had read in the newspapers rather than his own father’s murder, but Inspector Jameson had been a policeman for many years and had seen all kinds of reactions to death from bereaved families in that time, and so he knew that nothing could be inferred from it.
‘I shouldn’t quite say that,’ he said, ‘although of course the case does present a number of difficulties, such as the apparently short interval in which the murder must have been committed, and the fact that neither you, Mrs. Montgomery nor Daniel Tyler saw anybody else in the vicinity at the time.’
‘Well, presumably that must mean that the killer was hiding, lying in wait,’ said Norman. ‘How terrible, to think that my father’s murderer was probably within a few yards of us when we passed him. If only we had asked him to come to the fête with us, then this could not have happened!’
Jameson made no comment, but instead said:
‘I should just like to be absolutely clear on this point. Are you quite sure that you and Mrs. Montgomery were together the whole time? She didn’t walk ahead of you at any point, for example? Were you out of sight of each other at any time?’
‘No, we walked together all the way,’ said Norman. ‘And I don’t quite like what you’re suggesting. I assure you that Mrs. Montgomery had no motive at all to murder anyone.’
Jameson wondered whether he was being wilfully obtuse, but did not rise to this.
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Tipping,’ he said, ‘but I have no choice but to ask questions of this kind. This is a murder investigation, and I’m afraid personal feelings must not be allowed to come into it.’
He was fully aware of his own failings in this respect, but ignored them.
‘Very well, then,’ said Norman reluctantly. ‘I suppose you must do your duty, but I can’t say I like it.’
Jameson smiled in acknowledgment, and went on, ‘Apart from Andrew Norris, are you aware of anyone else who might have had a motive to kill your father? Did he have any other enemies that you know of?’
‘No, none at all,’ said Norman.
‘I understand he had rather a particular sense of humour, which might not have gone down too well with some people,’ said Jameson carefully.
‘He had a robust sense of humour, certainly,’ said Norman. ‘I can’t say it was always to my taste, but really, the occasional joke hardly constitutes a motive for murder, does it?’
‘It depends,’ said Jameson. ‘Perhaps if someone had been the butt of his jokes for many years, they might be driven to desperate measures.’
‘I don’t quite understand what you’re getting at,’ said Norman.
Very well: it was time to bring the thing out into the open, thought Jameson.
‘Did you and your mother get on with your father, Mr. Tipping?’ he said.
Norman bridled.
‘Ah, now I see your line of thinking,’ he replied coldly. ‘You are trying to imply that one of us might have done it. Well, I can assure you that what you are suggesting is utterly ridiculous. Quite apart from anything else, both of us have an alibi for the time in question.’
Jameson did not contradict him, but instead said:
‘Do you own a shotgun?’
Norman was offended now, but was determined not to lose his temper.
‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘Everyone around here owns one.’
‘Are there any at your father’s house other than the one he carried?’
‘Yes, yes, I dare say there are,’ said Norman. ‘And since it is clear the way your mind is working, I suggest you take mine and then go to the farm and have a look at those too. I can assure you that none of them was used to kill my father.’
‘Thank you, I shall do that,’ said Jameson. ‘You do understand why I have to ask these questions, don’t you?’
‘Oh, I suppose so,’ said Norman grudgingly. ‘Very well, I shall go and fetch mine and you can have a look at it.’
He went out and came back with the article in question, which he handed to Jameson.
‘It’s not loaded,’ said Norman. ‘I should never dream of keeping a loaded shotgun in the house. It would be terribly dangerous.’
Jameson examined it closely. As Norman had said, it was not loaded. He handed it back with thanks.
‘I understand you have been speaking to Mrs. Montgomery,’ said Norman. ‘I don’t like her being mixed up in all this.’
‘I don’t suppose she likes it much either,’ said Jameson. ‘But I had to speak to her, too, since she is a witness.’
‘You ought to have come to me first,’
said Norman. ‘I could have spoken for her and told you she had nothing to say.’
‘Perhaps she preferred to speak for herself,’ said Jameson.
‘She ought to have refused to talk to you until she’d spoken to me. What did she tell you? I have a right to know.’
Jameson raised his eyebrows.
‘I thought you were quite certain she had nothing to say,’ he said.
‘She had nothing to say,’ said Norman. ‘We were there together, and she ought to have let me do the talking for us both. What did she tell you?’
‘I’m not at liberty to reveal that,’ said Jameson, ‘but I can’t stop Mrs. Montgomery from telling you if she wishes. You will have to ask her, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t worry, I shall,’ said Norman pompously.
Inspector Jameson took his leave and walked back towards the village, feeling more conflicted than ever. He found Norman Tipping’s high-handed manner very irritating, and in any other circumstances would have been quite happy to discover that the man was guilty—but if he was, then where did Kathie come in? She must be complicit, in that case. Of course, there was the question of the gun, and Jameson clung to that. Daniel Tyler was quite certain that neither Norman nor Kathie had been carrying a shotgun when he met them, but there was no doubt that that was what had killed Tom Tipping. Where was the weapon, then? Had the murderer killed Tipping and then run off, taking the gun with him? Or had he perhaps hidden it somewhere? Nobody had been seen with a gun on Saturday—or at least, no witnesses had come forward to say they had seen anybody carrying one. A shotgun was not something that could be shoved in a pocket and hidden, and the police had found no sign of it when they searched the area, so where was it? Until they found it, the case would not be solved, Jameson was certain of it.
SIXTEEN
‘I seem to be hitting a brick wall on all sides,’ said Inspector Jameson to Sergeant Primm once he had got back to the police station. ‘Nobody is budging on the story of what happened on Dead Man’s Path. Daniel Tyler has no particular reason to lie, as far as I can tell, and we have no witnesses to say that anybody else was in the area at the time. And of course, there’s this damned shotgun. If one of our suspects did it, what did they do with the gun? Your men have scoured the place from top to bottom, and there’s no sign of it.’
‘No,’ said Primm. ‘That’s not to say it’s not there, but if it is it’s pretty well hidden. Of course, whoever it was might have shot Tom Tipping, hidden the gun somewhere and then come back for it later before we’d had a chance to search the area properly.’
‘True,’ said Inspector Jameson. ‘Norman Tipping’s shotgun is safely at home now—but still, we have Tyler’s word for it that Tipping couldn’t possibly have done it. And of course Daniel Tyler couldn’t have done it because the gunshot was heard before Tipping and Mrs. Montgomery met him coming the other way.’
‘It’s a pity about those two,’ said Primm with regret. ‘They’re the ones with the motive.’
‘I had heard that there’s no engagement yet,’ said Jameson cautiously. ‘If so, then perhaps Mrs. Montgomery would have less of a motive for trying to protect him.’
‘Pfft!’ said Primm. ‘Engagement or no engagement, she’s sure of him. She’s pretty and well-bred, and just the sort of wife he’d be looking for if I know anything about Norman Tipping. She’ll make him look good, you see.’
‘That’s rather cynical of you, Primm,’ said the inspector. ‘One would hope that there’d be at least some affection in the case.’
‘Depends what you mean by affection, doesn’t it?’ said Primm. ‘She’s a nice girl, and she’s been alone for a long time without much money. P’raps he came along and offered her a comfortable life and kind treatment and she was willing enough to accept it.’
‘Then you don’t think they are in love?’
‘I can’t imagine Norman Tipping falling in love, can you?’ said Primm. ‘He’s far too much the careful sort. He probably likes her well enough. And she—well, she’s a kind-hearted soul.’
‘Would that be enough to make her lie for him, though? I could perhaps understand it if she loved him, but if she doesn’t then it just makes her look horribly mercenary, and I shouldn’t have thought she was the type.’
‘No, I shouldn’t have thought so either,’ agreed Primm. ‘But facts are facts.’
‘And evidence is evidence,’ said Jameson. ‘And so far we have very little of that. Very well, let us see what Margaret Tipping has to say.’
‘If you can get anything useful out of her then you’re a better man than I am, sir,’ remarked Primm cheerfully. ‘She’s a close one, all right.’
‘That may be so, but I must try, at least,’ said Jameson, and went out.
The Tippings’ farm stood to one side of Dead Man’s Path, on the other side of a large field. The farmyard itself was much more clean and spruce than Jameson had expected, and he wondered whether Margaret Tipping was responsible. He knocked at the door and she answered it quickly. There was a mop in her hand.
‘I’m cleaning,’ she said unnecessarily, and stood back to let him in. The kitchen flags were still wet, and he stepped gingerly over them. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it again after you’ve gone. There’s to be a funeral, you see—when the police say we can have it, at any rate—and I want the house to be spotless.’
Jameson wondered whether she had been concentrating on the cleaning as a means to avoid thinking about what had happened. Sudden deaths could take people that way. Mrs. Tipping led him into the parlour, which was dark and silent, apart from a loudly ticking clock on the mantelpiece. After a moment she seemed to recall her manners, and invited him to sit. He did so, and she perched on the edge of a chair opposite. For a minute or two they sat, facing one another in the dim light, the sound of the clock the only thing breaking the silence. She was staring at him so dispassionately that he felt quite uncomfortable.
‘Have you found out who did it yet?’ she asked eventually.
‘No,’ said Jameson. ‘That’s why I am here. I should like to know more about your husband. I believe if I can find out more about him, then that might give us some idea of why he was killed and who killed him.’
‘What do you want to know?’
He glanced at his notebook.
‘Other than Mr. Norris, did your husband have any enemies?’
She stood up suddenly, then went over to the window and started wiping a duster along the window-sill, even though from where he was sitting it looked perfectly clean.
‘No,’ she said at last. ‘Not that I know of. At least, none that would be prepared to put themselves out by killing him.’
This seemed a strange way of putting it, to say the least.
‘Then everybody liked him?’ said Jameson.
‘That’s not what I said, is it?’ said Mrs. Tipping.
‘What do you mean?’ said Jameson. He was wondering whether he would have to drag every single piece of information out of her.
‘Why, there were people who liked him and people who didn’t. Those who didn’t kept away from him as a rule.’
‘Who were they?’
She looked at him as though he were slightly slow-witted.
‘Nobody in particular,’ she said. ‘Everyone has someone who doesn’t like them, but if we all went around murdering people we didn’t like there’d be nobody left, would there? I dare say there are people who don’t like you much, inspector, but you’re still here.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Jameson. ‘I thought you were speaking about a particular person.’
She said nothing, and Jameson, who was getting rather impatient, decided to stop beating about the bush.
‘Did you like him?’ he said.
‘Not especially,’ she said, as though she were telling him the time. ‘But again, I didn’t kill him. Nor did I want to.’
‘What about your son? Did he get on with his father?’
‘They never understood each ot
her,’ said Margaret. ‘Norman’s a serious sort. But they rubbed along well enough.’
Jameson was finding her a puzzle. There was no animation in her face as she talked about her family, and in fact she seemed devoid of any feeling at all.
‘You think I’m cold,’ she said suddenly, as though reading his mind. ‘I’m not. Or I never used to be, at any rate. But my life didn’t turn out the way I expected so I had to make the best of it, and I discovered a long time ago that the best way to do that was not to feel too much. After all these years I think perhaps I’ve forgotten how to feel.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jameson, and meant it.
‘Don’t be,’ said Margaret. ‘I’m all right.’
She seemed determined to be unemotional, so Jameson went back to his questions.
‘Tell me about the fête,’ he said. ‘You were on the cake stall that day, I understand.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I went to get something to eat at about one o’clock, I think, but apart from that I was on the stall all day, until Norman came to fetch me and tell me what had happened.’
‘Is there anyone who can swear to that?’ said Jameson. ‘Lady Cardew says she saw you some of the time. Is there anyone else who might have seen you—especially around lunch-time or shortly afterwards?’
‘Mrs. Randall, I suppose,’ said Margaret, thinking. ‘Except I don’t think she saw very much at all.’
‘Why not?’
‘She drinks,’ said Margaret flatly. ‘I don’t know why on earth they let her do the tea. She knocked the urn over.’
‘Ah,’ said Jameson, taken aback.
‘I think I talked to Mrs. Hunter,’ went on Mrs. Tipping. ‘She might remember. There’s bound to be someone, anyway. I was there all the time. But you know,’ she went on, ‘I couldn’t have done it anyway. I don’t know how to fire a gun.’
‘What about your son?’ said Jameson. ‘He has a shotgun.’
She looked at him, but said nothing. Jameson was finding the whole conversation very odd. Usually it was difficult to ask such questions because people tended to get upset or angry, but in this particular case it was difficult because Margaret Tipping’s coldness was making him distinctly uncomfortable. He pressed on doggedly.