The Problem at Two Tithes (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7)

by Clara Benson

  ‘I’ve done no such thing!’ exclaimed Angela. ‘I’ve never inveigled my way into anything in my life. I wouldn’t even know how to inveigle. And as for taking over—why, that’s simply nonsense! I assure you that I’ve kept well out of it, just as I promised. I won’t deny that I’ve spoken to the police, but Inspector Jameson is an old friend of mine so I could hardly avoid him. Other than that, I’ve left them to it, and I’ll continue to leave them to it—but only if you’ll believe me. Quite frankly, if you’re determined to be convinced that I’m secretly running about the countryside hunting down murderers, then I may as well actually do it.’

  An uncertain expression began to dawn on Humphrey’s face.

  ‘I don’t wish to cast doubt on your veracity,’ he said, ‘but you must admit it looks rather odd. And another thing: there hasn’t been a murder in Banford Green for a hundred years or more, but as soon as you arrive someone is shot dead. Why is that, do you suppose?’

  ‘Pure coincidence, of course,’ said Angela. ‘Unless you’re suggesting I organized the thing for my own entertainment.’

  ‘No-o,’ said Humphrey, although he did not seem quite certain of it.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Angela. ‘I know you think we society women are all irredeemably jaded and debauched, but I don’t think I’m quite at that stage yet.’

  ‘It is no joking matter,’ said Humphrey.

  ‘I know it’s not,’ said Angela. ‘Someone has died and it’s not funny at all. I should like the person who did it to be arrested, but I’m happy to leave that job to the police. And I promise you I didn’t say any of that stuff in the Herald. Now, please, let’s forget it and go in to tea.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Humphrey. ‘I apologize. I’m sorry I thought the worst of you. I ought to have known you would never have done anything of the kind.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Humphrey,’ said Angela in some surprise. ‘That’s very generous of you, and I’m quite happy to forget it was ever mentioned. But for goodness’ sake, let’s burn that newspaper.’

  ‘That might be wise,’ he agreed.

  They went into the drawing-room, where there was a slightly frosty atmosphere. Mrs. Randall peered at Angela through her lorgnette and gave her a grimace that might have been interpreted as a smile, but Elisabeth was stony-faced.

  ‘Angela informs me that she had nothing to do with the story in the Herald,’ said Humphrey. ‘Perhaps it will be better if we never speak of it again.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Elisabeth, although she looked unconvinced.

  Mrs. Randall looked disappointed, but said nothing, and they all busied themselves with tea, Angela feeling relieved and surprised that Humphrey had believed her. Perhaps he was not such a bad old stick after all, she thought, and resolved to have a word with Freddy to see if anything could be done to keep Corky Beckwith under control in future.

  EIGHTEEN

  On Friday morning Sergeant Primm entered Banford Green police station to find Inspector Jameson frowning over another story in the previous evening’s Herald, which Angela had missed in all the furore over her own appearance in the paper.

  ‘You’ve seen it, then, sir,’ said Primm.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jameson. ‘I shall have to speak to Corky Beckwith. We can’t have this sort of thing being published when we’re in the middle of a delicate investigation.’

  The story to which he referred was based loosely on a conversation with Andrew Norris, who claimed to know the true state of relations within the Tipping household, and hinted at motives for Tom Tipping’s murder which had yet to come to light, although much was made of a supposedly secret will. In the article, Norris was given free rein (with Corky’s helpful additions) to criticise the police, the Tipping family, his neighbours, the Government, and the Herald’s rival newspaper, the Clarion. According to the story, the police were shortly expected to arrest the main suspect, and it did not take too much knowledge of the case to understand that the suspect in question was Norman Tipping.

  ‘Corky only just stopped short of naming him,’ said Jameson. ‘The man’s a menace. He ought to know that writing stuff like this can prejudice a trial.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Primm. ‘Still, you might have to admit he’s right when you hear what I’ve found out.’

  Jameson looked up and saw that the sergeant had an air of suppressed triumph.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Do you remember I mentioned that Mrs. Marchmont was here yesterday?’ said Primm.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jameson. ‘She’d been speaking to Andrew Norris. Have you talked to him to find out who this Jimmy is?’

  ‘I didn’t need to,’ said Primm, looking even more pleased with himself, ‘because I bumped into Jimmy himself this morning.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘One James Cleary, known around these parts as Irish Jimmy. He’s by way of being a bookmaker. We know him very well.’

  ‘Oh, a cash operator, is he?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Primm. ‘Well, now, we don’t trouble ourselves with him too much, but now and again we give him a warning or a fine and he goes off and promises to be a good boy—until the next time. At any rate, we and he rub along together nicely, generally speaking. Anyway, I’d been wondering whether he was the same Jimmy old Norris had been talking about, and as luck would have it I happened to see him this morning, so I just asked him, casual like, whether he’d had any dealings with a certain person lately. Now, Jimmy knows better than to clam up on me on a big race day, so he was happy to talk. More than happy, in fact, as it seems he’s been foolish enough to give the certain person in question credit all this year and half of last.’

  ‘And let me guess: that certain person has been avoiding him lately,’ said Jameson.

  ‘Why, how on earth did you guess that, sir?’ said Primm, opening his eyes in mock surprise.

  ‘I gather you are referring to Norman Tipping,’ said Jameson. ‘What sort of sum are we talking about?’

  ‘The best part of a thousand pounds,’ said Primm.

  Jameson whistled.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Primm. ‘Anyway, the last time Jimmy saw him he asked for the money, but Norman said he didn’t have it at present. Jimmy caught him by surprise, it seems, for he got a bit flustered and let slip that his father had promised him a loan and that Jimmy could have the money next week. Two weeks later, there was still no sign of it so Jimmy went and spoke to Tom Tipping, who laughed as though he’d never heard such a joke and said that Norman had taken Jimmy for a fool, as Tom would never be stupid enough to throw good money after bad like that, even if he was disposed to give his son a loan—which he wasn’t, as Norman was quite old enough to look after himself now without having to come to his father for help.’

  ‘I see,’ said Jameson. ‘So Tom wasn’t inclined to bail out his son. How did Jimmy take the news? These people don’t take kindly to defaulting debtors, generally speaking. I suppose threats were made?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ conceded Primm. ‘Jimmy’s got a temper on him, and he’s been in trouble in the past that way. I shouldn’t be surprised if he put the fear of God into Norman, and that’s a powerful driving force.’

  ‘It is,’ said Jameson.

  ‘At any rate,’ went on the sergeant, ‘I was just on my way back here when I happened to see Norman Tipping and thought I might as well speak to him as not, and so I told him what Jimmy had said.’

  ‘And how did he take it?’

  ‘As you might expect. He blustered and denied it for a bit, but then admitted it was true. I asked him if he had a gambling habit and he got very pompous and said absolutely not, and what did I take him for? He said it would never happen again, and that every man was entitled to make a mistake in life, surely?’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ observed Jameson.

  ‘It would be if it was true,’ said Primm, ‘but I reckon it’s all nonsense. If you ask me, he’s got the habit badly. And all this, of course, gives him more of a
motive than ever to have murdered his father. We know Norman owns a shotgun and that he had a good reason to do it; now all we need to do is break that alibi of his.’

  Jameson picked up a pencil and toyed with it thoughtfully. His heart had been sinking all the time Primm was talking. He had been hoping to avoid the question—hoping somehow that an entirely different solution to the case would come to light before he had to face it—but now it could not be put off any longer, and so he said:

  ‘The alibi is easy enough to break if you disregard the sound of the shotgun.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Primm in surprise.

  ‘Why, that the noise is the only evidence we have that Tom Tipping was killed when everybody assumes he was,’ said Jameson. ‘If it weren’t for that, then he might have been killed half an hour or even an hour earlier for all we know.’

  Primm stared at the inspector as his words sank in.

  ‘Do you mean to say that Tom wasn’t killed in those few minutes at all?’ he said. ‘Then who fired the shot that was heard?’

  Jameson shrugged. He was suddenly sick of the case and wanted nothing more to do with it.

  ‘It might have been anything or nothing,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t a shotgun at all, but a car backfiring.’

  ‘Then Norman might have done it after all,’ said Primm. He paused. ‘But in that case, why did he walk along Dead Man’s Path afterwards with Mrs. Montgomery? You’d have thought he’d take care not to go anywhere near it after the murder.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jameson. ‘I don’t know anything. All I can tell you is that we have every reason to arrest Norman Tipping for the murder of his father. He owns a shotgun, he was in the area at the time as far as we know, and by his father’s death he inherits enough money to pay off his debts. That’s quite enough to justify an arrest. There is no alibi as such. The sound of a shotgun going off is only circumstantial evidence that might easily be explained away.’

  He waited while the sergeant thought about it some more.

  ‘What about Mrs. Montgomery?’ said Primm at length. ‘If he did it an hour earlier, as you say, then she can’t have been with him at the time, since she was at the fête.’

  ‘No,’ said Jameson, ‘but it might not have been an hour earlier. It might have been only ten minutes earlier, in which case she might easily have been with him when he did it. And even if she wasn’t with him at the time—even if she really did just walk back to the fête with him later, as she said, then she must have seen Tom’s body lying there as they passed. She can’t have avoided seeing it. In that case, why didn’t she mention it?’

  ‘I see,’ said Primm. He looked sober. ‘I don’t like to think of her being involved,’ he said. ‘There’s that son of hers—what will happen to him?’

  Jameson said nothing but his mouth was set in a thin line. He had done his duty and much good it had done him. He had presented Sergeant Primm with everything he needed to arrest Norman Tipping and Kathie Montgomery, and now he would have to try and live with himself for it. It was impossible for him to continue any further with the case, so there was nothing for him to do but to go back to London. There he could lick his wounds in private and try not to think too hard about what he had been responsible for. For perhaps the first time in his long career, Jameson found that he hated his job, and what it forced him to do. Perhaps when he got back to Scotland Yard he would request a few days off and go away somewhere for a little while to try and forget things. He showed nothing of this in his face, however, but merely said:

  ‘You’d better get an arrest warrant. I doubt very much you’ll have any difficulty.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought so,’ agreed Primm. ‘I reckon we’ll have Norman Tipping in custody by the end of the day. I’d better take in Mrs. Montgomery too, although I don’t like it. Won’t the Cardews kick up a fuss!’

  ‘I dare say they will,’ said Jameson. ‘And I’m sorry to leave you to it, Primm, but I’m wanted back in London today, so I won’t be in at the finish, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s a shame, sir,’ said Primm.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t my case in the first place,’ said Jameson. He wanted nothing more than to get away as quickly as possible, and so he took a hasty leave of the sergeant and left the police station to walk to his car, which he had left at the top of Church Lane.

  If he had been hoping to escape without seeing Kathie again, however, he was disappointed, for just as he reached the car he saw her emerging from Dead Man’s Path on her way into the village. She approached him and greeted him cheerfully, but then her expression became one of concern as she saw his face.

  ‘Why, what’s the matter, inspector?’ she said. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs. Montgomery,’ he said. ‘I’m just returning to London as I am needed at Scotland Yard.’

  She looked puzzled at his stiff reply, which was quite unlike his normal manner to her.

  ‘But what about Tom?’ she said.

  ‘It wasn’t strictly my case,’ he replied. ‘I was only looking in on it, so to speak. I’ve left it in the hands of Sergeant Primm and his inspector, when he returns. If you have anything new to report, you can speak to them.’

  She regarded him questioningly, and he found himself unable to meet her gaze.

  ‘Something has happened, hasn’t it?’ she said after a pause. ‘Why are you really leaving?’

  He knew he ought not to answer this, but he could not help himself.

  ‘Because I can’t be impartial,’ he said at last. She was silent, and he went on, ‘When someone is murdered a detective has to put aside his personal feelings and ask all kinds of unpleasant questions of people. Normally it doesn’t bother me, but in this case I’m finding it particularly distasteful, and I’ve realized I can’t—I ought not to continue.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Why are you finding it so distasteful?’

  ‘Because every question I ask seems to return an answer I don’t like,’ he said, ‘to the extent that I have been tempted to disregard vital evidence. I can’t do that and do my job properly, and so I am withdrawing from the case.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand. What evidence do you mean?’ she said. She hesitated. ‘Is it to do with Norman and—and me?’

  He did not answer directly, but he did not need to, for his look was confirmation enough.

  He said, ‘You know, of course, that Norman Tipping is the chief suspect in the case.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kathie. ‘And I also know that everyone thinks we were in it together. I can quite see why they would. But you know we weren’t. You have Daniel Tyler’s word for it that we couldn’t have done it.’

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, Tyler’s word counts for very little in this instance, and I knew it but said nothing. I ought to have spoken up days ago, but I didn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ she said.

  ‘Because then I should have had to arrest you,’ he said quietly.

  There was a silence as she digested what he had and had not said.

  ‘So you see, I’ve already compromised myself,’ went on Jameson. ‘I’ve withheld information and betrayed everything I stand for as a policeman, and that being so, I’m hardly fit to remain on the case. I’m doing wrong even by telling you all this.’

  ‘Norman didn’t do it,’ said Kathie suddenly. ‘And neither did I. Everything I’ve told you is true, I promise you. I haven’t lied, or kept anything from you. I simply couldn’t—not when you’ve been so kind to me and Peter. I would never lie to you, of all people. Please say you believe me, inspector. I can bear to be arrested, but I couldn’t bear it if you thought I’d been lying. Do you believe me?’ It was almost a whisper.

  He looked into those bright blue eyes of hers.

  ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘But I can’t ignore the evidence any longer, and that is why I am going back to London. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Of course you have to go,�
�� she said. ‘You’re right: you mustn’t compromise your integrity—I quite understand that. I should think the worse of you if you did.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  She gazed at him steadily and he wished he could tell what she was thinking, but her expression was unreadable. Whether by accident or design they were standing very close together and he knew he ought to step away from her and get into the car now, but somehow he was unable to do it. Just then, a slight breeze blew a strand of hair across her cheek and before he knew what he was doing or could stop himself he had reached up and brushed it gently away. She caught her breath and they both froze, his hand still suspended in mid-air. For a long moment all he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears and the pounding of his own heart, then suddenly he was leaning closer to her and she was raising her face to his, and they would certainly have disgraced themselves there and then had they not been interrupted by a voice which hailed them at that moment from the head of the lane. They started guiltily and moved apart, and turned to see Norman Tipping approaching from the direction of the village. He looked cross and bothered—which was entirely understandable if he had spent the morning speaking to Sergeant Primm about his gambling debts—and he looked at Jameson resentfully when he reached them.

  ‘There you are, Kathie,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she replied, sounding flustered. ‘I was speaking to the inspector and got distracted.’

  ‘Shall we go?’ said Norman. ‘Mother is expecting us, and we are already late.’

  ‘All right,’ said Kathie. She threw Inspector Jameson a last startled glance but had no chance to say anything before she was urged away by Norman, and they walked off together. Jameson stood for a moment, attempting to recover himself, but without much success. He then got into his car and drove away, cursing his own stupidity. Had Norman Tipping not turned up just at that moment then who knew what might have happened? Or rather, he corrected himself, it was perfectly obvious what would have happened. He would have kissed Kathie Montgomery and then all would have been lost: the case would have been ruined and with it most likely his own reputation as a detective. His head and his heart were in a tumult. Of all the ridiculous things he had ever done, falling head over ears for a suspect in a murder case had to be the most idiotic. Whether she were innocent or guilty made no difference: she could never be his. Primm would get his warrant and arrest the two of them later today. If she was guilty she would go to gaol; if innocent then presumably she would marry Norman Tipping one day and be happy. Either way, it was nothing to do with him. All that was left for him to do now was to go home and get over her—if he could.