by Frank Smith
‘What you call the wash-house is that small room off the passageway leading to the back door, isn’t it?’ asked Molly.
‘That’s right.’
‘And you say there was water on the floor there this morning? Where did it come from?’
‘From somebody’s wet mac, I should think,’ Mrs Lodge said promptly. ‘Must have hung it there last night when they came in and it dripped on the floor. It was gone this morning – the mac, I mean – but that’s a damp old place, and water stays on those tiles for days if you don’t mop it up. Wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for the painters.’
Mrs Lodge went on to explain. ‘You see, when the painters came in, we moved all the hats and coats and boots into the wash-house while they painted the back passage. There aren’t as many pegs in the wash-house as there are in the passage, so we had to hang them all on top of one another, all higgledy-piggledy like. When I took the broth in last night, I had to squeeze between the coats and the table to set it down. But somebody must have come in later and hung their wet mac on the peg. That’s when they slopped the bowl and knocked the cloth in.’
It was probably Charles Bromley’s mac, Tregalles thought. It would have been soaked after his visit to the barn with Thorsen, but Mrs Lodge shook her head when he voiced the thought.
‘No, it wasn’t Mr Charles’s,’ she said. ‘His was on the clothes-horse all spread out to dry like always. Very particular about his clothes, is Mr Charles. He always puts his coat to dry when it gets wet.’
And Thorsen’s cape, together with Renshaw’s coat, had been draped over chairs in the kitchen by PC Renshaw, Tregalles recalled. ‘What time was it when you went into the wash-house this morning?’ he asked the housekeeper.
Mrs Lodge thought about that. ‘It was before I started breakfast,’ she said slowly, ‘so it must have been around seven or just after. Set me back a bit, it did, what with mopping up the floor, tipping all that good broth away and washing out the bowl.’
Tregalles winced. If the wet mac didn’t belong to Charles Bromley, and none of the others, who had been outside, had been wearing coats, then it was just possible that the wet mac belonged to the murderer. And if he or she realized that they’d nudged the bowl, they might have grabbed it to steady it, leaving fingerprints behind. But Mrs Lodge had washed it out.
The sharp eyes of the housekeeper caught the expression on his face. ‘Well, what was I to do?’ she said defensively. ‘What with the cloth being in there and all, I didn’t know what else might have gone in as well, did I?’
‘I understand,’ Tregalles told her, ‘and it may not be important at all, but perhaps we should take a look for ourselves, just to be sure.’
Halfway between the kitchen and the side entrance to the manor was a door to the room still called the wash-house where, years ago, all the household washing was done in the copper boiler. It was a small room, and the old bricked-in copper took up one corner of it, while next to it, in sharp contrast to the monument to the past, stood a washer and drier of more recent vintage. And next to them was a stainless-steel sink.
The room contained only two other items of consequence: a large folding clothes-horse with a man’s mackintosh draped over it, and a wooden table whose top had been scrubbed white. As Mrs Lodge had said, the floor was tiled, its smooth surface worn hollow in places by the passage of many feet.
‘There, see, just like I told you,’ the housekeeper said. ‘You can still see the wet patch on the table where I mopped up the broth. And that’s where the water was on the floor.’
The peg above the spot to which she pointed was empty. All the rest had two or three coats and jackets on them, while below them were several pairs of shoes and a pair of wellingtons. ‘They’re the outside shoes,’ she explained, ‘and boots for the garden. Mr Charles insists that we change shoes when we come in from outside since he had the new carpets put down in the halls upstairs and down. Not that I blame him after what they must have cost. Those belong to Gwyneth,’ she said, pointing, ‘and those and the wellingtons belong to Mrs Etherton – she loves gardening, does Mrs Etherton; she’s always out there helping Thorsen. And these tatty old things are mine,’ she said disparagingly. ‘Mind you, I only use these when the garden’s wet; I keep my shopping shoes upstairs.’ She came to the last in line. ‘And these boots belong to Mr Bromley,’ she concluded.
Tregalles examined them all, but the only ones that showed any signs of having been exposed to rain were those belonging to Gwyneth and Charles Bromley. ‘I don’t see Mrs Bromley’s shoes,’ Molly said.
‘Nor Julian’s,’ Tregalles added. ‘Yet they both say they were caught in the storm last night.’
‘Mrs Bromley never leaves her shoes down here,’ the housekeeper said. ‘Always takes them off and carries them upstairs when she’s been out in the rain, As for young Julian, he takes his off if he remembers, but that’s not often. There was mud all the way up the back stairs this morning. That’ll be his, I’ll be bound.’
‘Are there any coats missing?’ Paget asked.
The housekeeper’s eyes ranged back and forth across the coats, lifting one or two to look underneath. ‘Just Miss Toni’s,’ she said. ‘But then, it would be, wouldn’t it?’ She stepped back and folded her arms. ‘And if it’s all right with you, Sergeant,’ she continued, ‘I’d like to get back to the kitchen, because I’ve got work to do.’
‘In that case,’ Tregalles said amiably, ‘let’s all go into the kitchen, because I do still have a few questions, Mrs Lodge, and to tell the truth, I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.’
Seated at the big wooden table while the housekeeper filled an old-fashioned kettle, the sergeant continued to question her. ‘When you went upstairs to speak to Mrs Bromley after dinner, how did she seem to you? Was she calm, upset, angry?’
The housekeeper frowned. ‘Funny you should ask that,’ she said, pausing in what she was doing, ‘because I thought she looked sort of troubled, like.’
‘Troubled, Mrs Lodge . . .?’
‘It was like something was bothering her,’ the housekeeper said slowly. ‘Like she was trying to work something out, if you know what I mean. I don’t think she heard a word I said.’
‘Mrs Bromley told us that she came into the kitchen later in the evening to ask if you had seen Paul Bromley,’ Tregalles said. ‘How did she seem then?’
Mrs Lodge cocked her head on one side. ‘That was different,’ she said. ‘More like she’d decided what to do. She was looking for Mr Paul. Asked me if I’d seen him. I told her I thought he’d gone down to the village.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Well, he told me, didn’t he? Well, more or less.’
‘When was this?’
‘When I went up to see Mrs Bromley. Come round the corner at the top of the stairs as if the Devil was after him. Ran right into me, he did. Almost knocked me down, so I asked him where he thought he was going in such a hurry.’
‘And he told you he was going to the village?’
‘Yes . . . well, not in so many words, but as good as.’
‘What, exactly, did he say, Mrs Lodge?’
The housekeeper sighed. ‘When I asked him where he thought he was going in such a hurry, he said, “Anywhere away from this damned house where I can get a drink!” And the only place he could do that around here is in Hallows End.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Lodge. You say he came round the corner fast? Was he running?’
‘No. Just walking too fast and not looking where he was going. He was just the same when he was a boy. Never looked where he was going, always into scrapes, that one. Ran into a door, indeed! A likely story.’
‘I don’t understand. What door, Mrs Lodge?’
The housekeeper looked at Tregalles as if she thought him particularly thick. ‘He was holding this handkerchief to his eye, and when I asked him what had happened, he said he’d run into a door.’ She sniffed. ‘Not that I believed him, of course, but that’s what he said.’
‘Did you see a bruise? A swelling or a cut?’
‘I told you, he had a handkerchief over it. But there was blood on the handkerchief. Quite a lot of blood, and you don’t get that from running into a door, now do you, Sergeant?’
‘Did you happen to see where he came from?’ Tregalles persisted. ‘Which room?’
‘Now, how could I do that?’ Mrs Lodge asked indignantly. ‘I was at the top of the stairs, round the corner from the long corridor. Maybe you can see round corners, but I can’t.’
Tregalles sighed. ‘And neither can I,’ he told her. ‘But it’s a pity you couldn’t in this case.’
Tregalles and Molly were comparing notes when Ormside rang. ‘Had a call from Farnsworth’s doctor,’ he told Tregalles. ‘He says we can talk to the major as long as we make it short. I’ve informed DCI Paget, and he reckons he’ll be free by four thirty, so he wants you to meet him at the hospital at quarter to five.
‘And Reg Starkie rang to say he’s finished the autopsy on Toni Halliday, and we can pick up his report if we can get there before five. So perhaps you could drop Molly off, and she could do that while you interview Farnsworth?’
‘Can do,’ Tregalles said. ‘There’s not much more we can do here today anyway. No word on Paul Bromley, I suppose?’
‘Not so far. But I have put in a request for Toni Halliday’s phone records, and I should have something back by tomorrow. And that could lead us to whoever she was waiting for to pick her up last night.’
TWELVE
Major Farnsworth lay back against the pillows, eyes half closed. His rugged face was pale and drawn beneath the bandages that capped his head. The little nurse from Ghana stood on tiptoe to reach across the bed to straighten out the sheet. He felt a thrill of pleasure as her firm young breast put pressure on his arm. Her plump, dark cheek was just inches from his face, and he imagined her silken skin pressed hard against his own white flesh. She smelled of antiseptic, but if anything it intensified the pleasure, and his fingers twitched in anticipation against the counterpane.
‘There, now, all nice and neat for your visitors.’ The girl’s teeth flashed briefly in a bright, professional smile before she turned and left the room. He followed her with his eyes, the pleasure lingering as he watched the small, neat bottom vanish through the door.
‘Thank you, Nurse,’ Harriett Farnsworth called out belatedly.
She left the corner of the room where she’d been standing while the nurse attended to the major. A little grey ghost of a woman made weary by her lonely vigil. ‘Are you sure you feel up to talking to the police, dear?’ she asked hesitantly. He didn’t like fuss.
‘I’ve had worse to put up with, m’dear, as well you know,’ he said stoically. ‘Not a patch on the time I had the old leg blown to bits. Not a patch.’
Harriett smiled wanly. She wished he wouldn’t keep bringing that up. She shuddered inwardly at the memory of those two terrible years. The military exercise; the land-mine that shouldn’t have been there; the operations, the frustration, the rage and the interminable ranting and cursing that followed.
Only a slight limp remained, but the scars were deep, and having to leave the army had hurt him most of all. He was forty-nine, still vigorous, still handsome in a boyish way, and he could be so charming when he put his mind to it.
‘Why don’t you go and get something to eat?’ he said. ‘Get a bit of fresh air. You look tired. There’s nothing you can do here, and I’d like to sleep. Come back tomorrow.’
It almost sounded as if he cared, but he probably wanted her out of the room so that he would have time to think and get his story straight before the police talked to him. She didn’t believe the explanation he had given her. The part about being run down by a car might be true, but what she didn’t understand was why he was where he was at the time of the accident.
There was something he was hiding; something he wasn’t telling her.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said meekly. ‘I’ll do that and come back tomorrow. I’ll bring your shaving things and your pyjamas. Is there anything else . . .?’
‘No, no, you go,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll be fine. You’ll have to take a taxi, I suppose, so make sure he doesn’t take you round the old road to jack up the fare. And no more than a couple of pounds for the tip, mind.’
‘I know you’ve had a rough time of it, Major,’ Paget said once the introductions were over, ‘but we would like to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.’
‘I’ve been through worse, Chief Inspector,’ Farnsworth said stoically. He pushed himself higher against the pillows, and smoothed his clipped moustache. ‘Hit my head when I went down, apparently. Have to lie around for a bit until the pressure on the old skull goes down, but it could have been worse.’
‘I’m sure it could have been, sir,’ said Paget. ‘Now, we’ve spoken to Mr Thorsen, and he told us when you left his cottage last night. Could you pick it up from there? Tell us where you went and what you did?’
Farnsworth nodded, then winced and put a hand to his head. ‘Things are still a bit fuzzy, you understand,’ he said apologetically, ‘but I’ll do my best.’
After leaving the cottage, he said he’d taken Toby up Manor Lane and out onto the heath above the river as usual. He couldn’t be sure how long they were there, but he thought it must have been about an hour to an hour and a half. ‘It was a nice evening – at least it was before the storm came in,’ he said. ‘Should have started back sooner, though.’
It was raining hard and almost completely dark by the time he reached the top end of Manor Lane, and started down. ‘I was hurrying to get home,’ he said, ‘but suddenly old Toby ran off up the track leading to the barn, and he wouldn’t come when I called him. He’s a good dog, so I knew something must be wrong, and I went after him. I had a torch, but I could hardly see anything because of the rain.’
The major eased himself up in bed and winced. ‘I heard a motor start up, and suddenly I was blinded by the lights. There was a hell of a roar as the driver put his foot down, and the next thing I knew, the car was coming straight at me and I had nowhere to go. That’s the last thing I remember until I woke up to find a nurse bending over me.’ He smirked. ‘Pretty thing she was, too.’
‘Is there anything you can remember, other than the lights and the sound of the engine?’ Paget asked. ‘Did you see any light coming from the barn?’
‘No.’ Farnsworth looked grave. ‘My wife told me about the girl being killed there. Terrible thing. Absolutely terrible.’
‘Did you see anyone else while you were out there?’ Paget asked. ‘In the lane or on the heath?’
‘Didn’t see anyone in the lane. There were one or two people on the heath earlier on, but none close enough for me to tell you who they were.’
‘Was there any activity around the manor as you went by? Either on your way up or on your way back?’
‘No.’ Farnsworth closed his eyes tightly as if in pain, and said, ‘Look, Chief Inspector, I’d like to help, I really would, but that’s all I can tell you, and I’m still a bit groggy.’ He drew attention to his bandaged head again by touching it with his fingertips. ‘Mild concussion, according to the MO. Left arm and ribs took a bit of a beating, but thank God the bastard who ran me down didn’t run over the leg again. Now that was painful, I can tell you. Blown to bits by a land mine three years ago. Took the medics a couple of years and half-a-dozen operations to put it together again.’
Paget took out his card case. ‘We’ll leave you to get some rest,’ he said, ‘but should you think of anything else, please call that number, day or night.’ He set the card on the bedside table. ‘And thank you, Major. I hope you make a speedy recovery.’
Major Farnsworth lay back on his pillows and allowed himself to relax. Not a hint of suspicion about his story. But then, why should there have been? It wasn’t hard for someone like him to fool the police. They were an unimaginative lot, by and large, and the old reflexes were still as good
as ever. And speaking of reflexes . . .
He moved his head experimentally. Not bad. Not bad at all. The door opened and a nurse came in. Pasty face and hair turning grey. He grimaced and turned his thoughts to Nurse Adamu. That was the name on the nametag clipped to her lapel. He felt the blood stirring in his loins, the muscles tighten. It had been a long time since he’d been in Africa. He’d hated the place, hated the heat, hated the flies – but there was something about the smell and the feel of young black flesh that excited him. He ran his tongue over his lips and gave himself over to the rush of pleasurable thoughts.
Molly Forsythe was waiting for them in the car park when Paget and Tregalles emerged from the hospital. Standing beside Paget’s car, she was deep in conversation with a man who looked to be in his early to mid-thirties. Almost a head taller than Molly, there was more than a touch of the oriental in the chiselled features. Dressed casually in a polo shirt and shorts, his arms and legs were deeply tanned. Clearly a man who liked to keep in shape.
‘Sir,’ said Molly as the two men approached, ‘I’d like you to meet Mr David Chen. He’s Dr Starkie’s nephew – or rather Mrs Starkie’s nephew – and he’s here on holiday.’ Introductions made, Chen reached over to grasp Paget’s hand in a firm handshake. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you Chief Inspector. And you, too, Sergeant.’ He shook hands with Tregalles.
‘Not that it’s been much of a holiday for him so far,’ Molly broke in as if she felt an explanation was necessary. ‘Mr Chen is a surgeon who has been working overseas with Doctors without Borders for the past three years, but he’s helping Dr Starkie while his assistant is on holiday. And he’s been offered a job here.’ Molly sounded pleased about that prospect.
‘But not in my uncle’s line of work,’ Chen said with a smile. ‘I prefer to see my patients up and about after I’ve finished with them. It would be quite different from what I have been doing, but I need a change. Reg put in a good word for me here, so I’m giving it serious consideration.’ He looked at Molly and smiled. ‘And I must say prospects are looking more and more attractive every day.’