‘If you reckon Eileen Pennicott’s into theft, love,’ he told her, ‘you can forget it. She’s honest as the day. Too bloody honest for her own good, in my opinion. Aren’t I right, Rita?’
‘You certainly are, Jim.’
‘Eileen’s been widowed three or four years now,’ he went on, ‘and she scrapes a living doing cleaning jobs at some of the bigger houses hereabouts. Sometimes in the winter you can see her pedalling around on that old bike of hers, puffing with her bronchitis. But will she give up and go on sick benefit? Oh no, not Eileen.’
‘She cooks a treat, too,’ said his wife. ‘Sometimes, as a favour, she’ll do a dinner party for one or other of them. Cooks the food and serves it for them, really nice. But they don’t ever give her proper credit for it.’
‘Eileen’s the type that people take advantage of. She’d never dream of nicking anything. I’d stake my life on it.’
Pippa digested all this, but she had no intention of blindly accepting someone else’s character reference. She’d make her own appraisal of the woman she’d been detailed to interview.
Half-a-mile from the village, close to what had been the station in the long-gone days when a winding branch line had served the scattered rural communities, was a row of what had been railwaymen’s cottages. Single-storied, slate-roofed, in need of a paint job. The garden of the middle cottage was well-tended. An old-fashioned upright bicycle was propped against the wall beside the front door.
The woman who answered her knock was large and big-boned. The sight of Pippa’s warrant card didn’t frighten her. The arrival of the police on her doorstep, then, didn’t ring alarm bells in her head as with most people.
‘What is it, dear? I’m just off to work.’
‘This won’t take long, Mrs Pennicott.’ Pippa smiled and edged a foot forward meaningfully.
‘You’d best come in, then.’
Pippa followed her through a narrow passageway into the living room. Nothing of much value here, but all spotlessly clean.
‘You work for Mrs Bletchley, here in the village, I believe?’
‘That’s right. She’s one of my ladies.’
‘It was very sad about the major, wasn’t it? There’s a bit of mystery concerning a missing wristwatch of his that we need to clear up. That’s why I’ve come to see you.’
‘Dreadful business, wasn’t it? Killing the poor man and stealing his watch and things.’
‘No, I’m not talking about the watch that was stolen in Lisbon,’ Pippa explained. ‘I mean his other watch, the one that went missing a short while before their trip to Portugal.’
‘I don’t know anything about any other missing watch.’
‘The major mislaid it shortly before they went to Lisbon, apparently. He couldn’t find it anywhere, and in the end he had to take his other watch.’
‘It’s all news to me, dear.’
‘But surely - the major must have asked you if you’d happened to see his missing watch lying around somewhere in the house.’
The pale eyes suddenly sharpened. With anger, Pippa noted, not alarm.
‘Just what are you getting at, I’d like to know? D’you think I stole his watch?’
‘We’re just trying to get to the bottom of the matter, Mrs Pennicott.’
‘Oh, are you, then? What’s she been saying to you, that Mrs Bletchley? Accusing me, is that it? Making out I stole her husband’s watch when I’ve never in my life taken so much as a penny piece from anyone that I haven’t rightfully earned.’
Pippa shook her head. ‘Mrs Bletchley has made no accusations against you. Absolutely not. We asked her about the watch because it has turned up in connection with a crime we’re investigating in this district. She explained about this watch going missing before they left for Portugal, and now we’re trying to sort out exactly what happened.’
‘Well, all I can say is that it’s strange nothing was ever said to me about his watch going missing. Stands to reason, like you said, if the major had mislaid his watch he’d have asked me to keep my eyes open for it.’ She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Losing his watch wouldn’t be like him. He was the sort of person who kept his things real neat and tidy. His army training, I daresay. A proper nice gent, the major was. Always very polite and considerate - not like some.’
Not like his wife. No mistaking the implication.
‘Have you worked for the Bletchleys for long?’ Pippa asked.
‘Nearly three years now. I started there soon after they were married.’
‘I understand that Major Bletchley used to live in the house on his own after his first wife died. Who looked after him then?’
‘Old Mrs Craddock. She still lives in the village. She’d been with the major ever since the first Mrs B. moved there. But when he got married to this one, Letty Craddock soon got her marching orders. Her ladyship reckoned she was too old, and she wanted someone who’d do things her way.’ Mrs Pennicott sighed, as if she were apologising to herself. ‘I needed the job, because one of my other regulars had just moved away. But I should’ve been warned. Real pernickety, she is. Not his class, of course, not by a long chalk. Gave the poor major a few headaches, I’d say, what with her extravagant ways. Only he was soppy about her. You’d think a man his age would be past going soppy over a woman, wouldn’t you?’
Pippa had been well briefed by Sergeant Boulter with all the known background data. She made use of some of it now.
‘He was certainly very generous to his wife, wasn’t he? That sable coat she wears must have cost a fortune.’
From the woman’s sudden tight-lipped expression Pippa sensed that she’d been tempted to make a further comment that wasn’t in Mrs Bletchley’s favour. But perhaps she thought she’d already said more than enough. These days, jobs weren’t easy to come by.
Disappointed, Pippa closed her notebook and made ready to leave.
‘Well, thank you for your help, Mrs Pennicott. Sorry to have delayed you.’
Returning to the car Pippa started mentally composing her report. Should she state outright that, like PC Ashford, she believed Mrs Eileen Pennicott to be totally honest and incapable of having stolen the missing watch? Or would it be wiser to word her report less emphatically - just in case she was proved wrong? No point, was there, in going out on a limb? She could cover her back with a bit of waffle, and no harm done.
Pippa got in the car and slammed the door. To hell with being timid. She’d ride with her gut feeling. And she’d make a big point, too, of the curious fact that Major Bletchley had apparently made no mention of his missing watch to the cleaning woman, whom he’d surely have expected to be the person most likely to have spotted it lying around.
As a WPC, Pippa Hamilton was on the bottom rung of the police ladder, but she was determined to climb high. A woman could do it; Mrs Maddox had proved that. There was a problem, though. Her boyfriend, Derek, refused to understand that a woman’s career could be every bit as important to her as a man’s career was to him. She loved Derek, of course she did, but she was beginning to wonder if they could ever make a go of it together.
But Pippa still had that other problem, a more immediate problem. Her decision might well affect her future career - a black mark or a commendation, according to what she did.
She’d give herself a bit more time to think it over. But it couldn’t be left for long.
Chapter Ten
At a little before nine o’clock in the morning the Blackwood stables presented a very different picture from the sleepiness of the previous afternoon. A number of horses were out at exercise, and from the stable yard came various sounds of activity.
Kate and Boulter headed straight for the bungalow again. They weren’t expected yet, that was obvious. Sylvia came to the door in a peach-coloured negligee. She seemed in a subdued mood.
‘Fred’s been over at the stables since early on,’ she told them. ‘He said to give him a bell when you arrived. You go on through and sit down, and I’ll ring him.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kate.
From the living room they could hear her speaking, but not what she said. Then she put the phone down and joined them.
‘He’s just got to give some instructions to the head lad, and he’ll be over.’
‘Fine.’
Sylvia sat down on the edge of a chair, looking very uneasy, then she suddenly bounced up again and said, ‘I’d better go and get dressed, hadn’t I? Can’t float around like this all day.’
‘Just a moment, Mrs Blackwood.’ Kate wanted her to stay. She had a feeling that she’d learn more by seeing the husband and wife together. ‘There’s something I’d like to ask you that I didn’t cover yesterday. What did Barry Slater tell you about himself? Did he explain what he was doing in this part of the world, for example?’
There it was again, a tense wariness. But Sylvia tried to sound casual. ‘Not really, no. Barry didn’t talk about himself much. He liked to joke, have a bit of a laugh, you know.’
‘But he must have told you something. About what sort of job he had, the line of business he was in.’
‘I asked him once, and Barry just shrugged it off. This and that, was what he said.’
The tramp of heavy footsteps across the hall heralded the arrival of Fred Blackwood. He wore the same sort of clothes they’d seen him in before, baggy tracksuit and a thick sweater. He’d taken off his cap and his fair greying hair stuck sweatily to his head.
From the man’s aggressive stance as he stood poised in the doorway, it was clear that he’d decided on belligerence as his best defence. Defence against what, though?
‘I’d like to know what the hell your game is,’ he said, addressing Kate. ‘You turn up at the stables the other week all meek and mealy-mouthed and making out you were just an ordinary copper and not top brass. Then you come charging in here yesterday afternoon waving the big stick at my wife. What’s it all about, eh?’
‘You know what it’s about, Mr Blackwood. Your wife must have told you. My first visit was about something else entirely. This time, it’s about murder.’
He came walking into the room with his curious bandylegged gait, still angry. Or pretending to be. ‘And you think Sylvie and I had something to do with it? You’re crazy, that’s what you are. Off your rocker.’
Kate had risen to her feet. They were all standing now, and the air between them was charged with an electric tension.
‘I’m trying to establish the facts concerning Barry Slater’s death,’ she said. ‘If you’re willing to cooperate and answer my questions, Mr Blackwood, then perhaps we can eliminate you from our enquiries and won’t need to trouble you any further.’
‘Why the hell you should imagine that I’d got anything to do with his death, God only knows. I hardly knew the guy.’
Kate said incisively, ‘Barry Slater was your wife’s lover, on her own admission. And you were aware of that fact all along.’
Blackwood threw back his head and gave a contemptuous snort. But there was a false ring to it. ‘And in your “naice refained” little world you have me neatly tagged as the jealous husband who was dead set on revenge?’
‘Let’s get this straight. You’re saying that you did know about her affair with Slater, and that you didn’t object?’
There was hatred in his sharp blue eyes now, belying his outward scorn. ‘Listen, Mrs Bloody Chief Inspector, what Sylvie gets up to is her business. What I get up to is mine. We’re a couple of adults, see.’
‘And what do you get up to, Mr Blackwood?’
‘Not killing Slater. That’s the only thing that concerns you.’
‘Was Slater threatening you in some way?’ Kate asked.
‘Threatening me?’ Blackwood glared at her. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Was he extorting money, for example, as the price of his silence?’
Blackwood laughed, but Kate sensed that the man was becoming uneasy. ‘Did he threaten to give the lurid story of Sylvie’s little caper with him to the Sunday papers if I didn’t fork out? Is that what you reckon?’
‘You tell me. It could have been about something else altogether.’
He took a couple of menacing steps towards her, and Boulter instantly moved forward to intervene. But Kate gestured the sergeant to back off.
‘You walk into my home and make all these daft accusations without a shred of evidence,’ Blackwood raged. ‘Well, you won’t get any evidence, because there isn’t any. Why don’t you clear off right now, and get busy finding who really did for Slater, eh? And bloody leave Sylvie and me alone.’
Kate said, in an even tone, ‘You appear to have a nasty temper, Mr Blackwood.’
‘No he hasn’t, he hasn’t.’ Sylvia was speaking for the first time since her husband’s arrival. ‘It’s just . . . well, you’ve upset Fred, and no wonder, going on like that about Barry having something on him.’
‘Shut up, Sylvie!’
She subsided at once. Kate said, ‘Mr Blackwood, I’d like you to give me an account of your movements on . . .’
‘Tuesday night? Yes all right.’ His manner was suddenly changed. His wife’s intervention had given him a chance to get a grip on m’self. ‘Well, like Sylvie told you yesterday, we were here together all evening. We had supper, watched TV, I did a last round of the stables, and then went to bed. Satisfied?’
‘It’ll take a lot more than that to satisfy me, Mr Blackwood. You possess a shotgun, I understand. I’d like to take it away for examination.’
‘Do what you bloody like. Here . . .’ He pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and selected one. ‘Your sidekick can go and get it for himself. It’s in a cupboard in my office over at the stables.’
‘You can come across there with us as we leave, and we’ll give you a receipt for it.’ Kate did some rapid thinking. Even if Blackwood was totally innocent of any involvement in Slater’s death, he might still be guilty of fiddling at the stables, as suspected by the Spanish woman, Dona Carlota Martinez. This was a golden chance to pursue that other enquiry.
‘I take it you won’t object, Mr Blackwood, if we also arrange for a scrutiny of your accounts and correspondence?’
‘Scrutiny?’ He looked stunned. ‘What the devil do you mean?’
‘Let me explain. You claim there’s no evidence that you had any reason for wanting to kill Slater. You insist that he wasn’t blackmailing you. Therefore, if we put in hand an investigation of your business affairs and find nothing amiss, that will help to substantiate your statement.’
‘I still don’t see that you have any right to . . .’
‘Are you refusing permission, sir?’ asked Boulter in a mild tone.
‘Huh! You people would like that, wouldn’t you? Then you’d put it down as a black mark against me.’ He choked on his anger. ‘Do what you bloody well like. The books are Sylvie’s department, anyway.’
His wife stirred to life again, sounding anxious. ‘Fred, do you think we ought . . .’
‘Shut up, Sylvie!’
She meekly subsided again. There wasn’t any doubt who was boss in this family. They certainly had a peculiar relationship, but then it took all sorts.
‘I’ll make arrangements, then,’ Kate said pleasantly. ‘You’ll be hearing from us. That will be all for now. Except for the gun. Have you used it lately, by the way?’
Blackwood shrugged. ‘I went rabbiting about a week ago. That was the last time.’
‘And you’ll have cleaned it before putting it away?’
‘Naturally.’ His leathery face was one big sneer. ‘Same as I’d have done if I’d used it to shoot Slater, right?’
He led the way across to the stable block, stalking ahead of them. Their arrival in the busy yard brought about a sudden hush. The stable lads (half of them girls) were watching with keen but disguised interest as they continued their jobs. Maybe these people should be questioned some time, Kate thought. They might know something - more perhaps than Fred Blackwood imagined. It was often the wa
y.
There was even more avid staring when the threesome emerged from the office, Boulter carrying the shotgun.
* * * *
Heading back to DHQ, the sergeant said, ‘That guy’s a crook all right. But whether he killed Slater is something else again.’
‘If he did, we’ll eventually turn up something to help us nail him.’ Kate wished she felt as confident as she was attempting to sound. ‘Someone, somewhere would have noticed Blackwood where he wasn’t supposed to be, or Forensics will come up with evidence from Slater’s hire car that points to Blackwood. A few hairs from one of those shaggy sweaters of his, say.’
‘When we bloody find the car,’ said Boulter mournfully.
In minutes they were entering Marlingford. At the north end of the Market Square, Kate said, ‘Drop me off here, Tim, please. There’s something I want to do. I’ll see you back at DHQ.’
Her mysterious errand, in fact, was to buy the sergeant a present for his birthday tomorrow. This year, with his wife and two children absent from home, the event wasn’t likely to receive much attention. Last week she’d spotted a really nice summer sweater with a stylish mosaic design that she thought Tim would like. But the little unisex boutique had been closed at the time, since when she’d not had a spare moment to get there. This was her last chance.
She took a short cut through a narrow alleyway, the selfsame one that housed the unimposing premises of the Marlingford Gazette, Chipping Bassett Courier, and South Cotswold Post and Times. As always, the linseed odour of printer’s ink drifted out, and somewhere deep in the bowels of the building a printing press thumped and rattled. It swept Kate back to that first time she’d encountered Richard Gower, as a suspect in a murder investigation. Yonks ago now, it seemed, and Kate consoled herself as she’d done so many times since, that she’d never seriously suspected Richard.
Her mind dwelling on these thoughts, she almost collided with a woman hurrying through the alley in the opposite direction.
‘Julie.’
‘Oh, it’s you.’
A disgruntled look seemed to have become Julie Boulter’s normal expression, but this was accentuated now as she acknowledged Kate’s greeting. The sergeant’s wife had never felt any liking for his boss. Kate had tried her level best to get on friendly terms with Julie, hoping to help a bit in saving a marriage she could sense was heading for the rocks.
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