Aunt Bessie Considers (Isle of Man Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Diana Xarissa

  For a moment it looked as if Harold was going to argue, but finally he shrugged and moved into the foyer, heading towards Marjorie.

  “I’d like to ask you all to remain silent as you wait for your turn to be interviewed,” the inspector announced.

  The lift doors opened and several more uniformed officers emerged. Bessie led Bambi towards the Kinvig Room. If they had to wait, they might as well sit down. An uncomfortable silence descended on the foyer as people fought the urge to talk under the watchful eye of the inspector and his staff.

  Corkill had a quick conversation with the newly arrived officers and then he headed back into the Moore Lecture Theatre. The uniformed men and women spread out and began herding small groups of people into larger clusters in separate sections of the room. Bessie saw Henry moving through the crowd with a large set of keys on a ring. He opened the doors to several of the small classrooms that opened off the short hallway. Within minutes each uniformed officer had gathered up a collection of people and ushered them towards a classroom.

  Bessie watched the groups as they formed orderly queues outside each classroom door. The silence was uneasy, but unbroken aside from the quiet murmur that came from the classrooms themselves. Marjorie remained seated in one corner of the foyer and Bessie and Bambi joined her now, as Harold pulled chairs from the Kinvig Room for them all. They could do little more than exchange sympathetic looks as they waited for their turn to speak to someone.

  To pass the time, Bessie recited the times tables in her head. She’d done them through twice, from one to twelve, and was at three sevens are twenty-one for the third time when Inspector Corkill emerged from the lecture hall.

  “Ah, just the people I wanted to see,” he exclaimed, as if surprised to find them all waiting for him. He looked them all over for a moment and then sighed. “Ms. Cubbon, wasn’t it? I suppose I should take you first. I’m sure it’s well past your bedtime, isn’t it?”

  Bessie counted to ten before she said something she’d regret. She hated having special privileges accorded to her simply because of her age, but the inspector was right. She was tired, and it was well past her usual bedtime. As she rose to follow the man she reasoned that everyone else was staying in Douglas and could be in bed only a few minutes after their interview. She still had to call and reschedule her taxi; the one she had previously arranged would have come and gone by now. Once she finally found one to pick her up, it still had to drive her back to Laxey.

  The inspector led Bessie back into the Moore Lecture Theatre, steering her towards a small table that had been placed in one corner. Two chairs were pulled up to the table and Corkill held one out for Bessie. Once she was settled, he took the other chair.

  “I know it’s late and I’m sure you’re tired,” he told Bessie as he pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “I’ll try to keep this brief.”

  “Obviously, I want to help as much as I can,” Bessie replied. “The lateness of the hour and my level of comfort are far less important than figuring out what happened to Mack.”

  “Now, now, my dear Ms. Cubbon,” the inspector said patronisingly as he patted Bessie’s arm. “It’s my job to figure out what happened to Dr. Dickson. You don’t need to worry yourself with that. I just need you to answer a few questions.”

  “It’s Miss Cubbon, actually,” Bessie told him, her voice cool.

  “Pardon?” Corkill looked confused.

  “You called me Ms. Cubbon,” Bessie said patiently. “I’m actually Miss Cubbon.”

  “Oh, well, I hardly think we need to worry about that, do we?” The inspector gave her an ingratiating smile. “Let me rattle through my questions and then you can go.”

  Bessie nodded, already annoyed with the man. He was clearly nowhere near as smart as John Rockwell, and Bessie couldn’t help but compare the two, which did nothing to improve her opinion of Inspector Corkill.

  “First, can I get your address, please?”

  “Treoghe Bwaaue, in Laxey,” she replied.

  Corkill gave her a look she couldn’t read. “I did wonder,” he said after a moment. “You’re Rockwell’s Miss Marple, aren’t you?”

  Bessie flushed. “I wouldn’t consider myself anything of the kind,” she replied.

  “But you have been heavily involved in a couple of very high-profile murder cases in Laxey lately, haven’t you?”

  Bessie nodded reluctantly.

  “Let me make my position clear, then,” he told Bessie in a stern voice. “Civilians have no place, no place at all, in a police investigation. And that goes for any police investigation, from parking tickets through to murder. Rockwell came over here from Manchester with his own ideas about how to do things, and he can run his little station in Laxey however he likes until the Chief Constable gets tired of his antics, but his way isn’t my way. Have I made myself clear?”

  Bessie swallowed half a dozen replies that she wanted to give before she finally answered. “Perfectly,” she said tightly.

  “So then, Ms. Cubbon, how well did you know the deceased?”

  Bessie sighed silently. “How well does anyone know anyone?” she asked in return. “I’ve no idea how to quantify the extent of our relationship. He was an acquaintance that I’d run into at several of these sorts of conferences. I wouldn’t call him a friend, but we’d spoken several times and once had a very lively debate on the role of women at prehistoric Ronaldsway.”

  She forced herself to smile at the man. “And it’s Miss Cubbon,” she reminded him.

  “You knew his Christian name,” the inspector commented.

  “We’d discussed nicknames once,” Bessie replied. “He asked me if Bessie was my real name or just a nickname. I told him that no one has ever really called me Elizabeth, except my mother when I was in trouble. He said something similar about his own name.”

  “So who might have wanted him dead?” the inspector asked. “Who benefits from his death?”

  Bessie shrugged. I’ve no idea who might have wanted him dead or who might benefit,” she answered. “As far as I knew, he was just another archeologist.”

  “One with a proclivity for young, pretty blondes,” Corkill suggested. “And one who was stepping on a lot of toes with his new research.”

  Bessie nodded. “Both of those things are true,” she agreed. “But neither of them necessarily leads to murder.”

  “I didn’t say it was murder,” Corkill replied coolly. “I suppose Inspector Rockwell prefers chasing murderers to the more ordinary police work that needs doing on a daily basis, but I look at something like this and see nothing but an unfortunate accident.”

  “Bambi seems convinced that it was murder,” Bessie suggested.

  “And I’ll talk to Ms. Marks later and then thoroughly investigate her claims,” Corkill replied. “It isn’t your concern.”

  Bessie nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Are you staying somewhere locally at the moment?” Corkill asked.

  “No,” Bessie answered. “I couldn’t see the point. Laxey isn’t far away.”

  “No, I suppose not,” he replied. “When are you planning to be back here?”

  “I expect to be here all day tomorrow,” Bessie assured him. “There’s a full programme of events and I don’t want to miss any of the wonderful speakers. That is, assuming the conference continues as scheduled.”

  “I don’t see any reason to cancel anything, at least not at the moment,” the inspector told her. “You won’t be able to use this room, but beyond that, the conference can go ahead as planned.”

  “Well, that is good news,” Bessie smiled. “I just hope I’m not too tired to enjoy myself tomorrow.”

  “I guess that’s my cue,” the inspector muttered. “I don’t have any further questions for tonight,” he told Bessie. “I may want to ask you more tomorrow.”

  Bessie sat still for a moment, thinking about all the things that the inspector should have asked her. She sighed. “I guess I’ll get out of your way, then.” She
got to her feet and made her way slowly out of the room. Inspector Corkill followed, presumably planning to collect someone else to question.

  Bessie pulled open the door into the foyer and walked through it. She was surprised to see John Rockwell from the Laxey Constabulary pacing back and forth in the foyer.

  “Inspector Rockwell?” she said tentatively.

  He had been marching away from her when she spoke, now he spun around and quickly crossed to Bessie’s side. “Bessie, how are you?” he asked, his stunning green eyes staring hard into her tired grey ones.

  Bessie was immediately touched by the concern in his voice. “I’m just fine,” she assured him with a tired smile.

  “Rockwell? What brings you here?” Inspector Corkill didn’t bother to hide the annoyance in his voice as he confronted his fellow policeman.

  “Someone let me know that Bessie had found a body,” Rockwell said easily. “I thought maybe she could use a bit of moral support and a ride home.”

  Corkill frowned and walked closer to Bessie and the other inspector. He leaned in towards Inspector Rockwell and spoke quietly, but with intensity. “Just make sure you don’t find yourself interfering with my investigation,” he hissed. “You can do what you like in Laxey, but this is my jurisdiction and if I find out you’re trying to push in on my case I’ll file a formal complaint with the Chief Constable. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Just giving a friend a ride home, Pete,” Rockwell grinned at the other man. “You have a good night.” With that, Rockwell took Bessie’s arm and led her to the lifts. Neither spoke as they waited for the car to arrive. A uniformed constable joined them just before the lift doors closed, so the ride down was equally silent.

  Bessie waved a quick farewell to the two Manx National Heritage workers who were stationed at the museum’s front door as she left. They both looked bored and tired and she wondered how long they would be stuck there. It had already been a long night and it didn’t look like the police were wrapping things up, at least not yet.

  The inspector had managed to park very close to the museum’s entrance and Bessie sank gratefully into the comfortable seat in his nondescript saloon car. It wasn’t until they had negotiated their way out of the tiny car park and were headed through downtown Douglas that Bessie found enough energy to speak.

  “Thank you ever so much for coming to collect me,” she said. “I’m sure a taxi would have taken ages to arrive and I’m completely done in.”

  Rockwell glanced over at her and smiled. “I was happy to do it,” he assured her. “Once I heard what was happening, I called your taxi service and told them to leave you to me. I knew there was no way you were going to be able to get your scheduled ride home.”

  “But how did you know what had happened?” Bessie asked.

  “When you called 999, the operator noted your name in the computer system. Doona has an automatic flag on your name so that if it gets entered into the system anywhere, a window pops up and requests that someone call her and let her know what’s going on.”

  “Oh really?” Bessie said sharply. “That seems a bit, well, intrusive.”

  Rockwell patted her arm. “Please don’t be too hard on her,” he asked Bessie. “She’s only done it because she cares for you. If she hadn’t done it, I would have, especially after the last few months.”

  Bessie shook her head. “I don’t need looking after like I’m old and senile and incapable of taking care of myself,” she complained.

  Rockwell laughed. “No one that knows you would ever suggest any such thing,” he told her. “If it makes you feel any better, I have the same sort of flags on my wife and my kids, and nearly everyone in the police has at least one or two people that they’ve flagged. It isn’t like you get any special treatment or anything. It’s just a request for information.”

  “Well, if I can’t get special treatment, I really don’t see the point at all,” Bessie said, forcing a smile. She was not happy with the situation, but there was little point in continuing to argue the point with the inspector. She’d discuss things with Doona at a later date.

  “Anyway, Sam, the 999 dispatcher, called Doona to tell her what was going on and then Doona called me. She wanted to come down and get you herself, but I overruled her. I figured if anyone was going to incur Inspector Corkill’s wrath, I would rather it was me.”

  Bessie shook her head. “He wasn’t very nice, and he asked stupid questions,” she complained. “And he didn’t bother to ask any important ones, either.”

  Rockwell sighed. “He’s actually a very competent investigator,” he told Bessie. “I stepped on his toes a bit last month with Anne Caine’s car crash. It was technically his jurisdiction and I not only got involved in the investigation, but I requisitioned his department for the staff to protect her.” He sighed. “The later events at the Sea Terminal didn’t help, either.”

  “He didn’t strike me as competent,” Bessie replied. “He bumbled around asking me why I knew the dead man’s Christian name and not bothering to ask whether or not I knew about his life-threatening allergies. He asked who might benefit from Mack’s death, but refused to admit that it could be murder.” She sighed deeply. “It was all very frustrating, and he insisted on calling me Ms. Cubbon the whole time.”

  Rockwell laughed again. “Ah, Bessie, only some of us can be taught,” he told her. “I believe I only made that mistake once.”

  “Indeed,” Bessie grinned. “And you were smart enough to learn from your mistake.”

  The pair settled into a comfortable silence as Rockwell drove out of Douglas and along the coast. It was too dark to enjoy the scenery and Bessie found herself nodding off in spite of her best intentions. She woke up with a start when the car came to a stop in the small parking area outside her cottage.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Bessie exclaimed. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. I’m so sorry.” She could feel herself blushing in the dark car.

  “No worries,” Rockwell assured her. “I hope you don’t mind, though, if I take up a bit of your time with a few questions now that you’re home?”

  “Of course not,” Bessie told him. “Come in and I’ll make a pot of tea. You can ask whatever you like.”

  The inspector followed Bessie into her cottage. Bessie flipped the switch on the kitchen lights and they both blinked rapidly as the room was flooded with light. It only took a moment for Bessie to fill the kettle with fresh water, and while they waited for it come to a boil, Bessie dug out a box of chocolate biscuits that she’d been saving for a special occasion.

  “What did you want to ask me?” she asked Rockwell as the pair settled in at the small kitchen table with their biscuits and tea.

  “Just tell me what happened tonight,” he suggested.

  Bessie nodded. “I’m sure I’ve mentioned this conference at least a dozen times to you,” she laughed. “Tonight was finally the opening night. When I got there, though, everything was in a bit of mess.” She paused for a drink of tea.

  “Why?”

  “Dr. Mack Dickson had turned up. Apparently he appealed directly to George Quayle to be allowed to give the opening lecture of the conference and George gave it to him.”

  “George Quayle, everyone’s favourite lately-returned-home millionaire?” Rockwell checked.

  “That’s the one,” Bessie agreed. “He’s the main sponsor for the conference, which gives him a lot of influence.”

  “What do you mean by ‘main sponsor’?” Rockwell asked.

  “Basically, he’s paying for it all. Or rather, he’s paying for whatever the registration fees won’t cover, which will probably be most of the conference.”

  “Okay, so that gives him enough authority to make big changes to the programme at the last minute. Does he usually take that sort of advantage of his influence?”

  Bessie shook her head. “Actually, he’s usually the perfect sponsor. He usually comes along and at least pretends to be interested in whatever the event is. He often brings some o
f his wealthy friends to events and gets them to make generous donations as well. He’s sometimes been known to make requests for certain things like early entry or special behind-the-scenes tours or whatever, but this is the first time I’ve ever known him to make changes to a programme.”

  “That’s interesting,” Rockwell remarked. “Any guesses as to why he asked for the change?”

  Bessie shook her head. “Apparently Mack just knew what buttons to push to get his way. Honestly, Mack was an expert at finding people’s buttons and pushing them.”

  “Even yours?”

  Bessie laughed. “He wasn’t interested in me. I’m an amateur historian who is too old to appeal to his libido, totally without influence in academic circles and nowhere near wealthy enough to underwrite his schemes. He was willing to talk to me if there was no one else more useful around and he was even sometimes polite to me, but mostly he ignored me.”

  Rockwell nodded. “So who was upset about Mack’s sudden appearance?”

  Bessie shrugged. “Mostly Harold Smythe. He’d organised the conference and was meant to be giving the opening talk. He and Mack have a professional rivalry going back many years anyway. Marjorie Stevens seemed quite upset as well. I guess because she was the official Manx National Heritage staff member tasked with working with Harold on the conference, she may have seen George’s interference as an insult of some sort.”

  “Anyone else unhappy with Mack?”

  “He was rude to Joe Steele, an American paleontologist that I just met tonight, but Mack could be very rude when he was in the mood. Mack’s girlfriend was bored to tears, but I don’t see that as much of a motive for murder.”

  “And you think it was murder?” Rockwell asked.

  Bessie shrugged again. “Bambi, that’s Mack’s girlfriend, thinks it was murder. She insisted to Inspector Corkill that Mack never would have eaten something unless he was sure it was safe. And she thought he had his adrenaline injector with him as well. I know I didn’t see anything like that when I found the body, but I suppose he might not have been able to get it out in time or something.”