Murder in the Cotswolds

by Nancy Buckingham

  She watched the debate in his eyes, as if he was alert for hidden traps. His story was released bit by bit, grudgingly.

  “I can tell you where I was. No problem. I spent the whole evening with my brother-in-law.”

  “Where?”

  “In Marlingford.”

  “Where in Marlingford?”

  “At his house. Willow Crescent. Number fourteen.”

  Kate scribbled it down. “So he and your sister could verify that?”

  “Not Fiona, she wasn’t there. She’d gone to stay the night with a friend who was expecting a baby any minute.”

  “I see. What time did you arrive, Mr. McLeod, and what time did you leave?”

  A pause for reflection. “About half past seven I got there. I didn’t leave till ... it must have been after midnight.”

  “Quite late for someone who has to be up at the crack of dawn?”

  “Yes, well ... we were watching a film on TV and it didn’t finish until close on twelve. Cliff will tell you.”

  “This brother-in-law is the one to whom you gave the estate business?”

  McLeod looked rattled now. “Well yes, as a matter of fact, but what difference does that make?”

  Kate allowed her eyebrows to rise expressively, but she made no comment and took her leave.

  * * * *

  Back at the Incident Room, a message awaited her. Mr. Richard Gower had phoned, and would she please ring him back at his home number. With her hand on the phone, Kate hesitated, afraid of what might be coming. A confession? Please God, not a confession.

  It was anything but a confession. “Oh hello,” Gower greeted her when he answered. “Listen, don’t you agree that this farce has gone on quite long enough? Why don’t we meet and thrash things out? How about dinner this evening? At the Black Swan.”

  Kate’s self-possession deserted her. “You have to be joking.”

  “You don’t like the idea?”

  “You must know it’s out of the question. This is a murder investigation I’m engaged on. I can’t discuss it with you over the dinner table.”

  Kate heard his impatient sigh. “Then what do you suggest? We’ve obviously got to talk.”

  “If you have something to tell me, it will have to be in my office or yours. Mine, for preference.”

  “I’ve a better plan. If you don’t think you should be seen with me in public just now, you could come round to my flat this evening. My cooking’s not bad, when I make an effort.”

  “Forget it,” she said irritably. “I can see you tomorrow morning. In Marlingford,” she added. For some obscure reason Kate didn’t want to conduct this interview at Chipping Bassett with all the frenzied activity of the murder squad going on around them.

  “At Divisional Headquarters?” he asked.

  “That’s right. Shall we make it ten o’clock, Mr. Gower?”

  For the remainder of the day Kate found it hard to concentrate. This being Sunday, she allowed herself to go home for lunch. Her aunt, though, had forgotten all about food. She was in the garden, clipping the yew hedge.

  “Oh, Kate, I’m sorry. When I’m engrossed in something I just forget about time.”

  “You and me both; it runs in the family. Not to worry, Felix, I don’t expect you to wait on me. I’ll put lunch together.”

  Kate raided the fridge and found some roast beef. She made sandwiches American style, a heavy-handed filling of sliced meat and salad between slices of whole wheat bread. She carried the food and coffee out on a tray for them to eat in the shade of the magnolia tree, which at the moment was a cloud of waxy pink blossoms.

  Felix went indoors to wash her hands, and came back carrying a large buff envelope.

  “Those photos you wanted me to look out for you,” she explained. “You’ve a selection there.”

  “Oh thanks.” Kate had asked her aunt for what pictures of Belle Latimer she might have in her files, thinking that the occasional reminder of the murdered woman’s face might give her an insight into the motive for the killing. Glancing through them, she said, “These are damned good, Felix. Everything I’ve heard about Belle is revealed in that face. You’re a real whiz with a camera, aren’t you?”

  “No need to pile it on, girl.”

  Kate couldn’t help smiling at one of the photos, where Belle was the central figure of a small group at some equestrian event. “This one here, it looks as if Belle was really ranting off about something.”

  “And how! It was a terribly wet day and the organisers wanted to cancel. But Belle Latimer put her foot down. She expected to carry off the gold cup and she wasn’t going to be cheated out of her triumph by a mere torrential downpour.”

  “And she got her way?”

  “As always. But instead of carrying off the cup, she was carried off herself to the first-aid tent. Her horse skidded on the wet grass and threw her. Everyone had a good laugh behind their hands.”

  Among the crowd of unfamiliar faces Kate spotted Alison Knight, got up like all the others in gumboots, a raincoat, and sou’wester.

  “They deserved a laugh,” she commented. “None of the spectators look very happy here.”

  “I don’t know why they bothered to turn up at all in weather like that. Me, I had to be there, and I had the devil’s own job keeping water off my lens.” Felix picked up a sandwich and peeled back the bread to inspect the filling, nodding in satisfaction. “You shouldn’t have to work on a Sunday.”

  “Tell that to the criminal classes.”

  Felix licked pickle off her finger pensively. “I’m surprised you haven’t got around to arresting Richard Gower yet. I mean, knowing that it was his car, and he having no real alibi. It’s being whispered that there must have been something going on between him and Belle Latimer.”

  Kate nearly choked on a piece of crust. “I hope to God they’re not getting that sort of speculation from you.”

  “Now she accuses me of being a garrulous old woman.”

  Apologise, Kate!

  “Sorree.”

  “Which is no more than you should be, girl.” Her aunt winked at Kate and took another bite.

  * * * *

  The sound of a rich contralto voice throbbed across the road as Kate parked her car in the lay-by opposite Old Toll-House Cottage. It broke off, then went back a couple of lines and began again. Kate crossed the road and rang the doorbell. Alison would be expecting her; she’d phoned in advance to check that it would be convenient to drop by.

  “Hello, Kate. It must be urgent to bring you to see me on a Sunday afternoon.”

  Kate laughed. “When I’m on a case, Sunday is just another working day to me. I heard you singing from over the road.”

  “Oh Lord, does it carry that far? I’ll have to shut the windows when I’m practising, or my neighbours will be complaining.”

  “I thought it sounded great. You have a wonderful voice, Alison. From King’s Rhapsody, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right. I’m playing Countess Vera Lemainken in the Troubadours’ next production. I take the chance to practice whenever I can.” Alison led the way through the living room and out to a small patio at the back.

  “When are you putting the show on?” asked Kate.

  “In three weeks’ time. We always do four performances, Wednesday to Saturday. Can I persuade you to come?”

  “I’d like to, work permitting. I could bring my aunt.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” Alison indicated a padded garden chair. “Take the weight off.”

  “Thanks.” Kate sat down, crossing her legs comfortably. “What I’d like is for us to have an off-the-record chat. In strict confidence.”

  About to take a seat herself, Alison paused. “Off the record?”

  “The other day,” Kate reminded her, “we were talking about the Leisure Centre fund and Mr. Prescott. I do see that you don’t wish to be disloyal to your employer. But this really is important. Very important.”

  Slowly, Alison lowered herself into th
e chair. “It’s a murder investigation you’re concerned with, Kate, not the question of whether or not some piffling charitable funds have gone astray. Are you saying that the two are connected in some way?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “But you suspect they are? Who’ve you been talking to, to give you that idea?”

  Kate shook her head. “Come on, Alison, you know better than to ask me that. So, back to my question. Did you ever get a hint, the merest suspicion, that something funny was going on?”

  “Funny?”

  “Well, for instance, was there anything about Mr. Prescott’s recent behaviour that struck you as unusual or out of character?”

  Kate held her breath for a yes answer. A yes would go partway to bearing out Richard Gower’s story. The pause was a long one, so she thought she was out of luck. But then Alison said in a doubtful voice, “Well, it’s nothing definite, but ... a few weeks ago Mr. Prescott did let slip that he’d lost a lot of money at the races.

  Ever since then, I suppose it’s true that he’s not really been himself.”

  “How? Can you explain?”

  Alison pondered a moment. “In the normal way he’s very fussy about things being done exactly right. But that aside, he’s normally pleasant and cheerful. Just lately, though, he’s been quite bad-tempered. Really snappy sometimes, so perhaps ...”

  “Do you happen to know the name of his bookmaker?”

  “Are you going to question them?”

  “Yes, but you won’t be brought into it.”

  “Well, there’s a silver ashtray on Mr. Prescott’s desk. It has the name Porter and Brown engraved on it. They’re turf accountants in Marlingford.”

  You missed that, Kate. You’ re no Sherlock Holmes!

  “Can you think of anything else that might be helpful?”

  “Sorry, I don’t think so.” Alison stood up. “Will you stay for a cup of tea?”

  “I wouldn’t say no. It’s gorgeous sitting here in your garden.”

  While Alison was in the kitchen, Kate brooded. This was an opportunity to put the question that wouldn’t leave her alone. The question that haunted her.

  Alison emerged in no time carrying a silver tray laden with tea things and a plate of almond slices.

  “That was quick,” said Kate admiringly. “I’d have had to search for things, and I’d probably find I’d run out of milk or something. You must be a very organised lady.”

  “Well, I knew you were coming. I always try to think ahead and plan things.”

  “Me, too, but I don’t often succeed.”

  Idle chat was all very nice, but that damn question was still right there, demanding to be asked. Kate plunged.

  “Did it ever strike you that there might be another man in Belle Latimer’s life?”

  Alison stared at her in amazement, then burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, but that’s a hoot. Belle Latimer was as prudish as they come. Sex was a four-letter word to her.”

  “Really. Isn’t that surprising for someone who breeds horses?”

  Alison shrugged. “I suppose so, but that’s the way she was. If you wonder how I know, I can give you a good example. She was on the committee of the Troubadours ... being who she was she had a finger in most things that go on in this town. Anyway, about two years ago it was suggested that we put on Lock Up Your Daughters. Her ladyship objected. Said it was far too crude and suggestive. She was overruled for once, I’m glad to say, and it proved one of our most popular shows ever.”

  Alison was so emphatic that it would have been easy for Kate to forget her years of experience and seize on this as conclusive proof that Richard Gower had not been having an affair with the woman and, therefore, that he’d had no possible reason to kill her.

  “Did you have anyone in particular in mind for the role of Belle’s lover?” Alison queried amusedly.

  “If so, I’ll keep it to myself.” Kate said that with a little smile, a smile that came to her easily. “It seems that I was on the wrong track. Well, tempting as it is to ignore my conscience, I’d better make a move.”

  They both stood up. “I’ll ring you nearer the time about the tickets for the show,” said Alison. “There’ll be no problem. We never sell out, except possibly on the Saturday. And even then I’ll wangle you a couple of seats if that’s the only night you can manage.”

  “Thanks a lot. I’ll look forward to it.”

  * * * *

  All Sunday evening, while Kate waded through the flood of Action results which poured in ceaselessly, she felt absurdly jumpy about tomorrow’s interview with Richard Gower. If he was going to convince her of his innocence, he’d need to come up with something concrete. She had to be objective about him, one hundred per cent objective.

  A traitorous thought edged into her mind. Were the anti-women brigade in the police as wildly wrong as she’d always maintained? Were women too easily swayed by their emotions to do the job efficiently? No, damn it, that just wasn’t true. This was a once-only lapse on her part. Never before had she found herself in this ridiculous position—attracted to a man who was the prime suspect in a murder case. Anyhow, she wasn’t allowing that to affect her judgement.

  Monday morning finally arrived. Kate drove to Divisional Headquarters and parked in the bay reserved for the DCI. Her office, unused for several days, struck her as airless. She threw open the window, then spread papers on the bare desk to give an impression that Gower’s arrival would be an interruption to her busy schedule. She summoned a PC.

  “Just because I’m using my office rather than an interview room to see Mr. Gower, it doesn’t mean that this is in any way a social call. So no well-meant offer of coffee—right?”

  “Understood, ma’am.”

  She referred to her watch several times during the five minutes coming up to ten o’clock. At the tap on the door, she jumped. God, what a state you’re in, Kate!

  “Mr. Gower to see you, ma’am.”

  “Ask him to come in, please.”

  Richard Gower entered swiftly, and his limp was very noticeable. He looked drawn, almost gaunt, yet his attitude was impatient. He accepted her gestured invitation to sit down, and began speaking at once.

  “I really don’t see why we couldn’t have had dinner together, instead of this cold-blooded formality. Still, if that’s the way you say it has to be, then okay. But it’s time you put a stop to this crazy situation. You’ve allowed everyone to get the impression that I was involved in Belle Latimer’s murder.”

  “It’s not a question of what the police have allowed, Mr. Gower. The known facts speak for themselves.”

  “Just because, according to you, it was my car that was used for the killing.” His mouth tautened. “I suppose I have to accept that as an established fact. But it doesn’t follow that I was driving my car that night.”

  “Agreed, it’s a long way from being conclusive proof. However, you’re unable to offer any satisfactory evidence of your movements at the time.”

  “Good God, woman!” He raked fingers through his already rumpled hair. “I’ve told you exactly what happened. I can’t do more than that. Who put you up to this ridiculous persecution?”

  Is it a way of getting back at me because the Gazette has hit out now and then about police inefficiency?”

  “I’d advise you to be careful what you’re saying,” she said sharply. “We have every justification for treating you as a principal suspect in this case, Mr. Gower. Your alibi amounts to nothing, unless it can be corroborated.”

  “How the hell can it be corroborated? I was at home alone at the relevant time. Maybe I can’t prove that, but you can’t prove that I wasn’t.”

  “Don’t be too sure. If you happened to have been seen driving your car near the scene of the crime, and the witness comes forward, your alibi would collapse.”

  Gower sucked in an angry breath. “I couldn’t have been seen, because I wasn’t there. If you found a so-called witness, he’d be lying in his teeth.”r />
  “Since you insist that your story is true,” Kate said, “why not put an appeal in the Gazette asking the person who phoned you to come forward?”

  “What’s the point? It seems to me that whoever phoned and fixed for me to be at home was the person who used my car to kill Belle Larimer.”

  “If that person exists. You claim you were at home because you were waiting for someone who didn’t turn up ... that somebody else must have driven your car ... that these two people are in fact one and the same. Are you now suggesting that this unknown person was aiming to frame you for the crime?”

  “It’s a possibility. All I know for certain is that I didn’t kill Belle Latimer. You’ll never pin it on me, because I didn’t do it.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Or am I being a naive idiot for having such touching faith in British justice?”

  “If you are, then I’m one, too. But you’re right, of course. You’ll never be charged with murder unless or until we have overwhelming evidence against you.”

  “And you’ll never get that. For a start, you haven’t a motive. Isn’t that always the first thing you look for? Where’s my motive for killing Belle Latimer?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Gower—yet. But if there is one, I’ll find it.” Kate hesitated, shifting around some of the papers on her desk.

  “All right, let’s play it your way for a while,” she said. “You’ve implied that you might have been framed. So who would want to frame you?”

  He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “No one that I can think of. I won’t say there aren’t plenty of people I’ve upset in one way or another, but ...”

  “Think hard,” Kate found herself urging him. “Think back to your days as a foreign correspondent. Does anything come to mind? Were you ever threatened?”

  “Many a time, when I did an expose on political corruption and that sort of thing. I’ve been beaten up more than once and threatened with worse. And I’ve also been officially threatened with deportation. But I can’t see anyone pursuing me to this extent. It’s all water under the bridge now. I’m a forgotten man, I’m no danger to anyone.”

  “How did you get injured?” she asked.