The Fox in the Forest

by Gregson, J. M.

  Harry Davidson turned to them after the door had closed behind the maid. “What can I do for you, Superintendent?” he said. The genial squirearchal pose which had become habitual to him was no more than skin deep; the caution about his eyes belied the smile he carried beneath them.

  “You can answer a few questions for us if you will, that’s all,” said Lambert.

  He looked round the conservatory, with its heavy scent of hyacinths and bowls of paperwhite narcissi. “Very pleasant in here, especially when it’s so bitter outside.” He was in no hurry to remove Davidson’s unease.

  “Do sit down,” said Davidson, waving his hand towards the comfortable cane armchairs and taking one himself. He sat incongruously on the very edge of a chair designed for lounging, as if he expected that at any moment he would have to spring into action. Bert Hook wondered if this was a military mannerism or whether he was really as much on edge as he looked. He was not a tall man, and his eyes were scarcely level with those of his visitors, even though he sat so determinedly upright.

  In this place of ferns, greenery and heavy scent, with its bright white light and its extravagant heat in the depths of winter, it felt strange to be talking of the dark, frozen forest and the darker deeds that had taken place within it. Lambert said, “You are no doubt aware that I am investigating the deaths of Peter Barton and Ian Sharpe.” He caught a little twitch of surprise on the second name, but it might have been no more than a reaction to a name not so far revealed to the public. “I know you have been asked before about your movements at around the time of those deaths, but we now have a more precise time for the second of them, and I should like to review our information. I am doing this with other people as well as you, as you would expect.”

  It was a leisured assurance, which he had delivered more times than he cared to recall, but the slow pace of it seemed to put Davidson on edge rather than reassure him. He said, “I am only t-too anxious to help, of course.” His slight speech impediment, which made him struggle for just an instant with his t’s when they came at the beginnings of words ambushed him now, making his bland statement sound less assured.

  Lambert said, ostensibly waiting for Hook to turn to a pristine page in his notebook, “We’ve just come from Peter Barton’s funeral.”

  Davidson said, “I see. How did it go?”

  “As well as these things can. Not a happy occasion. Your wife was doing her best to comfort Mrs Barton after the service and interment.”

  “I’m glad about that. Rachel was very fond of young Barton. I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to get there myself. I’ve had a heavy cold, though that’s much better now. But I had to drive over to T-Tewkesbury, on business. Couldn’t get out of it, I’m afraid.”

  It had the ring of an apology, though they all knew he had no cause to apologize to them about this. Lambert let the man’s embarrassment hang between them in the humid warmth, but Davidson enlarged no further upon his excuses. Eventually Lambert said, “Well, there were plenty of people there: the church was packed. Probably you weren’t missed by most people.”

  It was a conventional white lie, but it hardly comforted Davidson, who looked as though he had been offered an insult. The moment confirmed to Lambert how important his position as a cornerstone of the local community was to the Chairman of the Parish Council. Davidson, apparently feeling a need to offer something, said, “Rachel was going on to the reception at the Bartons’ house afterwards. She will have given my apologies.”

  Lambert said, “And I’m sure the family will be glad to have her there. Now, could you tell us exactly where you were at the time of the vicar’s death, Colonel Davidson?”

  If he had hoped to throw his man off balance by the sudden switch, he failed. Indeed, Davidson seemed relieved rather than otherwise to be asked to account for himself in this way. He smiled with the confidence of a man who has nothing to hide. “I was here, Superintendent. In the house, I mean. As I told your man a few days ago — Inspector Rushton, I think? If necessary, both my wife and Mrs Graham, who was here that afternoon, could testify to that.”

  “Oh, we are not speaking of testimony; not at the moment, certainly. The statements of both your wife and Mrs Graham confirm that you did not leave the house that afternoon. So does that of your maid, Mary Cox.” Harry Davidson looked slightly disconcerted that his innocence should have been investigated so thoroughly by the police. “I have to ask you, though, whether you have any thoughts on who might have killed your unfortunate vicar. You are, after all, probably more familiar with the residents of this neighbourhood than almost anyone else in the area.”

  It was a shameless piece of flattery, and Colonel Davidson rose to it. “Oh, I’m not sure that’s t-true, you know. We’ve only been here five years. I’m a local man, in a way, but I was away in the Army for t-twenty years and more. But I suppose it’s fair enough to say that I have a good working knowledge of the people round here, what with the Parish Council and my work as a JP.” At last he relaxed his posture a little, settling back into the wickerwork of the chair. For an instant, he steepled his fingers and looked at them. Then he discarded the gesture, as if he thought it demonstrated his urbanity a little too obviously.

  Perhaps he was too concerned with his image of relaxed control, for he apparently forgot the question which had stimulated it, and Lambert had to say, “Quite. That is why I thought you might have some idea who had perpetrated such a shocking crime. There seems to have been nothing quite like it in this district before.”

  “No. Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. There’s no one I can think of among our local villains who might come up with a killing like that.” His reply came a fraction too quickly, when set against his previous easy assumption of a comprehensive knowledge of the neighbourhood. A man who implied as he did that little escaped him might surely have shown a willingness to offer some suggestions before the matter was abandoned. But perhaps he had thought about the question over the last few days and been forced to acknowledge that he was as helpless as everyone else.

  Hook said, “And Mrs Davidson is as baffled as you are?”

  Fury passed like a storm cloud across Davidson’s face. For a moment, Hook thought he was going to come out like the military man in a bad play with “You leave my wife out of this, Sergeant!”

  They still met that attitude often enough around the small-town world where they operated. But the anger passed as swiftly as an April cloud. Davidson merely said rather woodenly, “She has no idea who killed our vicar. We’ve discussed it, of course. But you must understand that she is not as familiar with this world as you and I are, Sergeant.”

  “Murder is abnormal wherever it happens, Colonel. It turns ordinary worlds upside down.” Lambert’s own passion against this darkest of crimes flamed for an instant through his detachment. He had spoken quietly, but his words had come like a reprimand. He recovered his calmness as he said, “Are you suggesting that someone from outside this area perpetrated Peter Barton’s murder?”

  Davidson looked suddenly full into his questioner’s face; but found no clue there to his intentions. The grey eyes stared steadily back at him, watchful but neutral. The brow beneath the crinkled iron-grey hair was lined, but not furrowed with puzzlement or hostility. The Superintendent’s wide mouth neither smiled nor grimaced. Yet Davidson felt he knew for the first time what those infantry squaddies must have felt when they stood before him, capless and at attention, on a charge. He said, “I couldn’t really say, Superintendent. You have more idea about these things than I have.” It cost him an effort of control to deliver even so much.

  Lambert studied him for a moment, while Hook made an elaborate play of writing down the details of this negative reply. Then he said, “Where were you when the second man was killed, Colonel Davidson?”

  Normally, Harry Davidson was glad to hear his title used. It was a reminder of his standing in the community, of the eminence he had achieved in the service career which was a prelude to this, of past milit
ary glories which he played down but loved to hear recalled to him. From Lambert, the title came differently. It kept him at a distance when he wanted to be friendly, to be assured that suspicion of him was no more than a formality of police investigation. He wanted the assurance Lambert would not give him that they were on the same side in this. He said hesitantly, “Where was I when this man — Ian Sharpe I think you said just now — was killed?”

  Lambert nodded with a fleeting smile. “You have an excellent memory for names, Colonel.” He made it sound as if he was suggesting more than that. He was thinking back over thirty years to his days of National Service, when he had been a gangling youth in an ill-fitting uniform and colonels had held their noses in the air as though he carried a bad smell when they inspected parades. But he knew this was not the moment to indulge himself with retribution. He waited patiently for an answer: he was not going to repeat the question they were both perfectly aware had been asked.

  “When Sharpe was killed, I was out in the car.” Davidson smiled at them with what he hoped was disarming frankness.

  “Driven by Arthur Comstock?”

  “No. I’m afraid I can’t alibi him for you.”

  “Nor he you,” said Lambert drily.

  “I suppose not!” Davidson laughed uneasily, as though they were playing a game. The silence into which the sound fell only made it more obvious that they were not.

  “Was Mrs Davidson with you?”

  “No. I was on my own. I like to drive the Rover myself sometimes. Comstock isn’t just a chauffeur, you see. He does all kind of jobs about the place.”

  In a curious way, he seemed to be trying to justify his employment of the man. But perhaps he was merely seeking to divert attention from himself to the man who lived in the service cottage. Lambert said, “And where did you go in the car on the morning of 27th December?”

  “I took my old aunts to the railway station in Gloucester.” He produced it with a little flourish. Perhaps he had been playing with them, keeping a cast-iron alibi up his sleeve while he enjoyed his fun.

  “What was the time of their train?”

  “Eight fifty-eight.”

  That put him back in the frame. The murder had been mid-morning. “So you returned here at about ten o’clock?”

  Davidson took a deep breath, like a man composing himself to steadiness. “No.” Now he stood up suddenly, as though the moment had been forced upon him by some pressure outside his control. He stood for a moment in front of Hook, as though he was studying the Sergeant’s neatly rounded record of his answers. But then he moved across to the shelf by the north window, where a row of cyclamen reared impressive heads of bloom. He began to test the soil surface with his fingers. “I didn’t get back here until late morning. About eleven-thirty, I suppose.”

  Lambert watched those fingers as they played around the top of the plant pots, wondering if the brain which activated them could still them if it wished to do so. He asked the question they all knew had to come as though he were delivering a cue in a play. “And where were you during those two hours, Colonel Davidson?”

  The fingers never stopped. Lambert could see the reflection of the oval face in the double glazing of the window as Davidson said, “I walked around Gloucester for a while, looking at the shops. Then I had a cup of coffee. The place was crowded, though. It was the first day the shops had been open after the Christmas break. Some of them were already beginning their sales.” It was delivered quite evenly and unemotionally. Too evenly, perhaps; it had the ring of a prepared statement. But perhaps there was nothing sinister in that: an intelligent man would expect to be called on for an account of his movements on that morning.

  He gave them the name of the café, a crowded place near the centre of the town. Lambert said, “Did you purchase anything else in Gloucester?”

  Davidson was turning to him almost before he had completed the question, holding out the scrap of paper those nervous fingers had twitched from his pocket. “I bought a small electric propagator. I told your colleague about that. I found the receipt today.”

  Lambert looked at it, then handed it without a word to Hook. It had the trade name of the propagator and the date of the purchase; no time, of course. He said, “Where did you park in Gloucester, Colonel Davidson?”

  “Well, I delivered my aunts straight to the station, of course. But then I parked in the multi-storey short stay park near Southgate.”

  “Do you have the ticket?”

  “No.” Davidson turned back to face them now, with a thin smile. They all knew that ticket would have recorded the precise time he had spent in the car park. “I probably left it behind with my payment. I usually get rid of litter as soon as I can. It’s an old Army habit, I suppose.”

  Lambert smiled in turn, recalling the vast drill squares from which he and other basic trainees in that Army had long ago removed every shred of paper on winter mornings. “And of course you had no idea at the time that it might be useful.”

  “No. I kept the receipt in case the propagator was defective, of course. There was a reason for that.”

  “Did you go anywhere else after you left Gloucester?”

  “No. I drove back here through the lanes in a very leisurely fashion, enjoying the day. It was a glorious winter morning, you may recall, bright and frosty.”

  “I do indeed. Sergeant Hook and I were out in it ourselves, rather belatedly. Unfortunately, Douglas Robertson, alias Ian Sharpe, was killed some time around the middle of that splendid morning. The shotguns from this house which our forensic team examined were perfectly clean. Has either of them been fired in the last few days, Colonel Davidson?”

  Davidson sat down again. Plainly he felt the crisis, if that was what it was, had passed. “As far as I am aware, neither twelve-bore has been fired in the last month, Superintendent.”

  “And have you any idea at all who might have perpetrated this second violent killing?”

  “None at all, I’m afraid. I’ve thought about it, like everyone else, no doubt. But I’ve neither seen nor heard anything since the crime took place which seems to me significant. Perhaps after all it is this maniac the yellow press is talking about as The Fox.” He smiled wryly, seeming perfectly at ease with himself now. It was a long time since he had stumbled over a word; Lambert wondered if his brain filtered out the T-words when he framed his speech, as he had known happen with stammerers much worse than this man.

  “We shall have to see Mrs Davidson in due course.”

  Davidson frowned, then thrust away his irritation with a deliberate effort. “If you must, then you must. But I’m afraid she will be able to offer you no more assistance than I have been able to do.”

  “Probably not. But sometimes when one puts several accounts together, they suggest something we might have missed. Thank you for your help. No doubt if you come across anything you think might be of interest, you’ll get in touch with us immediately.”

  They left him in the conservatory. As they reversed carefully over the crunching gravel to point the car down the long drive, Bert Hook saw him staring steadily at the bank of bright Indian azaleas on the other side of the structure. Hook said, “He has a cast-iron story for the vicar’s murder. He could have been anywhere when Sharpe was killed. I doubt whether anyone in the place where he says he had coffee at Gloucester will remember him. His appearance is too average. The uniform men have already checked the purchase of that propagator. The shop has no recall of the time it was sold.”

  “No.” Lambert drove a full mile before he said, “But I always distrust a man who begins with a lie.”

  25

  Mary Cox was a sensible girl. She had lived all her young life in Woodford, so she was not afraid of the dark. Those who have not been accustomed to street lamps have less fear of shadows than city-bred folk.

  Still less did she fear the forest. It was the scene of some of her most happy memories of childhood and adolescence, a place of innocent laughter, dappled sunlight, and the warm, re
sinous scents of woodland in summer. Even the short memories of twenty-year-olds have a habit of filtering out the duller and harsher moments from the past.

  As she walked home from the Old Vicarage, she looked at the outline of the evergreens against the sky on her left. The wood sprawled against the blue-grey sky like some huge recumbent animal. This dusk was too cloudy to allow her a glimpse of the early stars. As she marched briskly along, she thought of the man the papers called The Fox: she would have been less than human had she not done so. But you couldn’t believe everything you read in the papers; every one said that. Mrs Davidson, who was so easy to talk to that sometimes you forgot she was an employer, did not believe in The Fox: she had told Mary that only this morning.

  In any case, the place where the murders had taken place was well away from her route, over on the other side of the village: she reminded herself of that now. All the same, she was glad that Colonel Davidson had told her to go home early. The dark would drop in swiftly today, for the sun had never shown itself. That stiff man who hardly ever spoke to her had given her the last streaks of grey light to help her home. She wrapped her thick woollen coat around her and walked briskly, wondering what it was that the CID men were talking about with the Colonel.

  The wood crept closer to the lane here, until it was only the width of a narrow field from her. As she approached a gate in the high, straggling hedge, she became aware of a snuffling presence and checked her step for a moment. But it was only a curious, wide-eyed highland cow, its breath condensing in long snorts between its wide-set horns, its outline in the semi-darkness like the pictures of medieval oxen she remembered from her school books.