[DCI Neil Paget 01] - Fatal Flaw

by Frank Smith

  Andrea rose to her feet and handed him the books. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Clumsy of me.’ She turned swiftly and was about to leave when Stanton put out his hand and stopped her.

  ‘I’ll walk with you, if I may?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but fell into step beside her. He walked slowly, deliberately, it seemed to her, so that she was forced to slow her own pace.

  ‘Something is troubling you, Andrea,’ he said. It was a statement rather than a question. ‘You were miles away in the staff meeting, and you looked worried sick. In fact, you’ve not been yourself for several days, now. It’s not like you. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  The knot in Andrea’s stomach tightened. Isaac was a good friend, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. She tried to brush it aside.

  ‘I’m just tired, that’s all,’ she told him, summoning a smile. ‘Too many long hours, and with Christmas...’

  Stanton stopped, and she was forced to stop and face him. ‘If it is none of my business, then tell me so, Andrea,’ he said. ‘But don’t tell me you’re just tired when I can see for myself that it is much more than that. I do not wish to pry into your life, but sometimes we need a friend to talk to.’

  Oh, how she would have liked to tell him. To tell anyone. Just sit down somewhere quiet and let it all pour out. What a relief it would be. She saw the concern in Stanton’s eyes and was tempted; sorely tempted, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. This was one thing she had to resolve on her own.

  He saw it in her face, and nodded understanding^ as he resumed walking. ‘If you should change your mind, you know where to find me,’ he said. ‘But a word of advice, Andrea. You cannot go on like this. I tell you this not only as a friend, but as a doctor. Whatever it is that’s troubling you, do something about it. You know as well as I do how destructive indecision can be.’

  12

  When Paget and Tregalles arrived at Glenacres, they found that Jack Lucas was away on business, and his wife had gone into town. Not that Paget had expected either of them to be of much help. Lucas had said he’d only been at the party for an hour, and his wife had not been there at all, according to Sally. ‘She hardly ever comes into the yard,’ she said. ‘Georgie is afraid of horses.’

  ‘In that case,’ Paget told Tregalles, ‘you take this chap, Tillman, and start on the grooms, and I’ll take Blake and the rest.’ He handed Tregalles a copy of the list Sally Pritchard had provided, then set off to find Blake.

  Paget could see what Penny Wakefield meant when she’d said that Maurice Blake brought in the women. He was young, probably not much over thirty, and there was such a roguish charm about the soft-spoken man with just a hint of the Irish in his voice that it would be difficult to dislike him.

  Blake lived in a caravan behind the stables, and that’s where Paget found him brewing a mid-morning pot of coffee.

  ‘Mr Lucas said you’d be coming round,’ he said when Paget introduced himself. ‘Come along in, then. You’re just in time for a brew.’ He turned and led the way inside. ‘How do you like your coffee?’ Blake indicated a chair as he busied himself at the tiny counter.

  ‘Black with sugar, please.’ Paget settled himself at the table.

  The caravan was neat and clean, but it was probably there in violation of all sorts of local ordinances. The fact that it was tucked away behind a clump of trees suggested that it might not stand close scrutiny, but that wasn’t why he was here. That was a matter for the local authorities as far as Paget was concerned.

  Blake set a mug before him and sat down himself. He regarded Paget levelly across the rim of his own mug as he took a tentative sip. ‘Now, then, what can I do for you. Chief Inspector?’

  There wasn’t even the hint of nervousness in the man’s manner, and Paget couldn’t help but wonder about Penny Wakefield’s story. It wouldn’t be the first time that a disgruntled employee or colleague had put the boot in, and the girl had made it plain that she had no time for Maurice Blake.

  But he made no mention of that to Blake. ‘What can you tell me about Monica Shaw?’ he said.

  The man leaned back in his chair and shook his head. ‘A sad business, that,’ he observed solemnly. ‘She was a funny kid; hard to understand. But then, I didn’t have a lot to do with her. I talked to her a few times - she always seemed to be over here - but I can’t say I knew much about her. You’d be better off asking Sally or some of the girls about her.’

  ‘What about last Thursday, Mr Blake? She was at the party. Did you talk to her then?’

  Blake took a swig of coffee, then sat looking down at his mug, lips pursed, thoughtful. ‘I don’t think I did,’ he said slowly. ‘Not talked to her specifically, that is. I remember seeing her there, and there was a lot of chat going on; I suppose she took part, but that was about it. People were coming and going all afternoon, so it was a very loose sort of thing.’

  ‘What about outside? I understand that Monica was wandering about in the yard somewhere around five or six o’clock.’ Paget was deliberately vague. ‘Did you see anything of her then?’

  Again, Blake appeared to give the question careful consideration. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I was out there myself somewhere about then, too. I went up to have a look at Cracker- jack. He’d been off his feed for a couple of days. The vet took a look at him when he dropped in for a drink that day, but he couldn’t find anything wrong. Still, there was something putting him off his feed, so I was keeping an eye on him.’

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘Oh, about half five, I should think. Somewhere around there. I can’t be sure exactly.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else out in the yard?’

  ‘Someone was just leaving in a car,’ said Blake, ‘and I saw young Penny haring off somewhere. Why?’

  ‘Where were you when you saw Penny?’

  ‘Up the top end of the yard. That’s where Crackerjack’s stall is.’

  ‘That would be somewhere up near the storage shed, I believe?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you go into the storage shed for any reason, Mr Blake?’

  Blake frowned as if thinking back, but his eyes no longer met those of Paget as directly as before. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,’ he said as if he’d only just remembered. ‘I went in there for some ointment. Crackerjack had rubbed some skin off a hock. Nothing serious, but there’s no point in taking chances. But what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘In a moment, Mr Blake. How long were you in the shed?’

  Blake shrugged. ‘A few minutes. Three or four, perhaps. I can’t say I remember exactly.’

  ‘Do you recall whether the outside light was on?’

  Blake rose to his feet. ‘More coffee?’ he enquired.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I think I will.’ Blake topped up his mug and resumed his seat. ‘Sorry,’ he said as if just realizing he hadn’t answered Paget’s question. ‘What was that about the light?’

  Paget repeated the question.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ Blake said. ‘I meant to put a new bulb in, but I forgot about it. Thanks for reminding me.’

  ‘It’s working now,’ Paget said.

  Blake cocked an eyebrow as if surprised. ‘Someone must have changed it, then,’ he said.

  ‘Did you lock the door when you left?’ Paget asked him.

  Blake sat staring down into his mug and swirled the coffee round and round. ‘I believe so, yes,’ he said.

  ‘Are you quite certain, Mr Blake?’

  The man’s eyes came up to meet Paget’s own. ‘I thought we were supposed to be talking about Monica Shaw,’ he said.

  ‘And so we are,’ said Paget. ‘So we are, Mr Blake. You see, Monica claimed she was attacked and dragged inside the shed about the time that you say you were there.’

  Blake looked startled. ‘Monica said that?’ he said as if he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. His face darkened. ‘Are you ac
cusing me?’

  ‘I’m accusing you of nothing,’ Paget said. ‘I’m merely pointing out that Sally Pritchard discovered Monica in the doorway of the shed shortly before six o’clock. According to Miss Pritchard, the girl was crying. She claimed that someone had dragged her inside the shed and tried to molest her. And there is physical evidence that tends to support her story. Naturally, I am interested in anyone who was in the vicinity at the time.’

  ‘Well, it bloody well wasn’t me!’ said Blake indignantly. ‘I went in, picked up the ointment, and left. That’s it! And you can make what you like out of that! I wasn’t the only man here that day, you know.’

  It was a fine, righteous show of indignation. Blake might be telling the truth, but Paget doubted it. From what he had learned so far, there had been no reason for Monica to go to the shed. It seemed more likely that someone had seen her wandering about in the yard and had lured her inside, probably on the spur of the moment. Perhaps someone who’d had a bit too much to drink. Or someone like Blake.

  Always assuming, of course, that Monica had told Sally the truth in the first place.

  ‘As you say,’ said Paget quietly. ‘Who were those others, Mr Blake?’

  Blake eyed him warily for a moment. ‘Well, there was Jack Lucas, of course - not that I’m suggesting that he was involved - but he was there. Then there was Bob Tillman, the stableman. He’d had a bit to drink, come to think of it, and I don’t remember seeing him when I left the barn. And Vic Prescott, the new man. He seems all right; knows his business, but we don’t know anything about him. Sometimes it’s the quiet ones you have to watch. Then there were the two lads, of course, Tony and Phil.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all from here,’ Blake said, ‘but there were others dropping in during the afternoon. Clients and such. Anyone could have stayed behind.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  Blake banged his mug down on the table, slopping what was left of his coffee over the brim. ‘How the hell should I know?’ he asked belligerently. ‘You wanted to know who was there; I told you.’

  ‘What did you do after you left the shed?’

  Blake glared at him for a moment. ‘I went back to Crackerjack’s box, applied the ointment, then went back to the barn to join the others. The party was beginning to break up about then.’

  ‘You didn’t return to the shed?’

  Blake took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. ‘No, I didn’t return to the shed,’ he said evenly. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Perhaps to return the ointment.’

  Blake stood up, went over to the sink and picked up a cloth, then came back to the table where he proceeded to mop up the spilled coffee. ‘I didn’t take the ointment back,’ he said. ‘Not then. I thought I might need it later, so I put it in my pocket. As it happens, I didn’t put it back until the next morning.’ He dropped the cloth in the sink, then turned, folded his arms, and propped himself up against the counter.

  ‘Was there anything else. Chief Inspector?’ The sarcasm was thinly concealed.

  Paget rose to his feet. ‘I don’t think so, for the moment,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mr Blake. You’ve been very helpful.’ He crossed the floor to the door. ‘And thank you for the coffee. It was very good.’

  Both Paget and Tregalles spent the rest of the day at Glenacres, and it was after five o’clock when they arrived back in the office and sat down to compare notes.

  Tregalles had talked to the stableman. Bob Tillman. He’d also spoken to the new man, Victor Prescott, and two of the grooms, Tony Gresham and Phil Boxwell.

  ‘Tillman is forty-two years old, and the general dogsbody around there,’ he said. ‘He’s a bit slow, if you know what I mean, but a hard worker, by all accounts.

  ‘He says he was at the party all afternoon. I checked with Sally Pritchard. She said she thought she remembered him being there when she left to look for Monica, but she couldn’t be absolutely sure. Neither could anyone else; not for certain. But he is the sort who tends to fade into the background, so it’s hard to say exactly where he was.

  There was one thing, though. He said he liked Monica. He seemed to be very upset by her death. Said she was always nice to him; gave him a hand when she didn’t need to; that sort of thing. He’s the only one I spoke to who had anything good to say about her.’

  Paget leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘You heard Maurice Blake talking out in the yard this afternoon, didn’t you?’ he asked, and the sergeant nodded. ‘Any chance that Penny Wakefield could have mistaken Tillman’s voice for Blake’s in the shed that night?’

  ‘No way,’ the sergeant said emphatically. ‘Blake’s got a soft voice. What is he? Irish? Tillman’s a Welshman, and he sounds it. There’s no comparison.’

  ‘Okay. What about this other man, Prescott?’

  ‘He’s new. Came in at short notice a week after that chap, Craddock, died. He said he was in the process of moving up here from the south, and was looking round for a job when that happened, so Lucas took him on. Just temporary.’

  Tregalles referred to his notes. ‘Prescott says he left the party about three. Said he made the excuse that he had some last-minute things to do before Christmas, but he said the real reason was because he didn’t feel he’d been there long enough to fit in. He said they were all reminiscing about things he knew nothing about, and he felt a bit out of it. He’s a non-drinker and a bit on the shy side. I’d say. Says he went to his room and stayed there. He’s living above the stalls along with some of the grooms.’

  ‘Anyone able to verify that?’

  ‘Not a soul,’ said Tregalles. ‘And as for Monica, he said he’s seen her about the place, but he’s never actually spoken to her. Which could be true. He’s only been there a couple of weeks.’

  ‘And Lucas claims he was in town from just after three until seven,’ said Paget. ‘He could be lying, but he didn’t strike me as a stupid man, and he knows we’ll check, so I’ll accept what he said for the moment. What about the other grooms?’

  ‘Tony Gresham and Phil Boxwell,’ Tregalles said, grinning. ‘They’re just lads, both of them, and they were both in the barn when Sally went off to look for Monica. She remembers that quite clearly, because both of them were squiffed. She says they could barely stand up, let alone attack anyone.’

  ‘And the two young grooms I spoke to, Lucy Dixon and Sheila Fulbright, are both accounted for as well,’ said Paget. ‘I’d say the money is still on Blake.’

  13

  Tuesday, 29 December

  To the west, a mantle of fresh snow adorned the rounded peaks of Powys, but the country lanes that wound their way through the valley were wet with rain and slush. A watery sun made several half-hearted attempts to pierce the sullen grey, but it had given up the fight by the time Paget reached the school.

  As he came up the driveway. Miss Crowther appeared at the top of the steps leading to the main entrance of the school. She was accompanied by a tall, dark-haired woman. The woman glanced towards the approaching car, said something to Miss Crowther, then descended the steps and got into a mud-bespattered Range Rover. By the time Paget had parked the car, the Range Rover was half-way down the drive.

  Miss Crowther remained where she was. There was a guarded look in her eyes as he came up the steps. ‘Chief Inspector,’ she said. There was neither warmth nor welcome in the greeting.

  ‘Good morning. Miss Crowther.’ Paget turned and nodded in the direction of the departing Range Rover. ‘I thought I recognized the lady who just left,’ he said, ‘but I can’t seem to place her.’

  ‘Really?’ Miss Crowther managed to convey surprise, reproof, and a sense of disbelief in the single word. She turned and led the way inside. ‘Lady Tyndall is very well known to us here,’ she said. ‘She is a Thornton Hill Old Girl, you know. Now, of course. Lady Tyndall heads our board of governors. It is her photograph that is missing.’

  ‘I see.’ Lady Tyndall. Of course! Wife of Lord
Tyndall, who was a friend of Chief Constable Sir Robert Wyckham. So that’s who she was! He recalled, now, having seen her photograph in the papers from time to time, opening a bazaar or fete or some such thing. But he had seen her in person more recently, for she was the woman who had been talking so very earnestly to Sally Pritchard outside the barn on Boxing Day.

  But then, why shouldn’t she have been talking to Sally? Warrendale Hall was the home of Lord and Lady Tyndall, and Lord Tyndall was Master of the Hunt. No doubt they found it convenient to stable their horses at Glenacres.

  ‘You wished to see me?’ Miss Crowther stood poised as if to show he was keeping her from something terribly important.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I came to see Miss Wolsey,’ he said. ‘Do you know where I might find her?’

  ‘In her room, most likely.’ The headmistress made no attempt to hide her displeasure. ‘I’ve tried my best to get her out of there, but I might as well have saved my breath for all the good it did. I told her that all this moping about won’t bring the girl back again. What’s done is done, regrettable as that may be. But will she listen to me? Oh, no. I told her she’ll make herself ill if she keeps it up.’

  Miss Crowther sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. ‘I do hope she bucks up before the girls return after the holidays. I mean, it’s not as if anyone is blaming her for what happened. But then, Jane could always find something to feel guilty about, so I let her get on with it.’ She turned to leave.

  Paget said: ‘Did you by any chance ask Lady Tyndall about the photograph. Miss Crowther? Had she taken it?’

  The headmistress shook her head. ‘Lady Tyndall is as mystified as I am,’ she said. ‘We can’t think why anyone would wish to take it. I’ve looked everywhere, and I’ve asked everyone here about it. I can’t think where it’s gone. It’s the oddest thing.’

  ‘Is anything else missing?’

  ‘No, and I have checked, believe me. Was there anything else. Chief Inspector?’