by Frank Smith
A uniformed policewoman stood in the doorway, and beside her was a small, grey, rather sad-looking woman. They had never met, but Paget knew instinctively that this was Major Farnsworth’s wife. How much she had heard, he didn’t know, but to have her walk in at a time like this . . . He started to get up, but Harriett Farnsworth moved first. She plodded purposefully across the scuffed lino of the staff room with the awkward gait of one who lives constantly with pain, and came to a halt in front of Nurse Adamu.
The girl rose to her feet. It was clear she knew who Harriett Farnsworth was. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she began as tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t go on. The blanket fell from her shoulders, and the torn uniform dropped away to reveal deep scratches and bruises from her neck to her breast.
Harriett Farnsworth reached out and put her arms around the girl and pulled her to her. ‘I know,’ she whispered softly. ‘I know it wasn’t your fault, my dear, and I’m so sorry this had to happen to you, so terribly, terribly sorry.’
They stood there, locked in an embrace. Tears continued to roll down the young nurse’s face, but Harriett Farnsworth’s eyes were dry.
FOURTEEN
Saturday, September 10th
The church clock in Hallows End was striking nine when Molly Forsythe arrived on the doorstep of Number 42 Claremont Road in Hallows End. She lifted the door-knocker and gave three sharp raps, then stepped back a pace. Within seconds, her keen eyes detected movement behind lace curtains next door, but there was no response from Number 42. It took several more heavy knocks before the door was suddenly flung open.
The woman who stood before her looked as if she’d just tumbled out of bed. She was small and plump, and her hair was in curlers. A faded woollen dressing gown was tied tightly at the waist, and her feet were bare.
‘Yes?’ she said suspiciously as she leaned out to look up and down the street as if to make sure that Molly was alone.
‘Mrs Jones?’
‘That’s right.’
Molly identified herself and held up her warrant card for Mrs Jones to see. Alarm flared in the woman’s eyes. ‘It’s Gwyneth, isn’t it?’ she said hoarsely.
‘That’s right. I’d like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?’
‘Never mind the questions. What’s happened?’
‘Happened? I’m sorry Mrs Jones, but I’m just here to—’
‘Something’s happened to her, hasn’t it?’ Mrs Jones broke in. ‘Where is she? Is she going to be all right?’ Her eyes searched Molly’s face for answers.
‘Are you saying that Gwyneth is not at home, Mrs Jones?’
‘Of course she’s not at home,’ the woman snapped impatiently. ‘Why would you be here, else? She’s not been home all night. I just went up to call her and her bed’s not been slept in and I don’t know where she is. So don’t just stand there. I want to know. Just tell me what’s happened to my Gwyneth?’
‘Mrs Jones said she was feeling tired, so she went to bed early last night. She assumed that Gwyneth was working late again, as she has been recently, and she’d be in later. But when she went in to wake Gwyneth this morning, there was no sign of the girl ever having been home. When I asked if Gwyneth could have come home late last night, then gone out early this morning, Mrs Jones said that she would never have stopped to make her bed, and she wouldn’t have gone out again without at least leaving a note.’
They were in the parish hall. It might be the weekend for some, but it was just another working day for Paget, Tregalles, Ormside and Molly.
‘I rang Mrs Lodge straightaway, of course,’ Molly continued, ‘and she told me that Gwyneth left the manor on the stroke of eight last night. But she did say that Gwyneth hadn’t been herself. She said she’d found the girl in tears a couple of times, yesterday. At first, she put it down to the fact that everyone was upset about the murder, but she couldn’t see why Gwyneth would be crying over the death of a woman who had made her life miserable, and she wondered whether Gwyneth had had a fight with her new boyfriend.’
Paget looked up sharply. ‘New boyfriend? Does Mrs Lodge know who he is?’
Molly shook her head. ‘In fact, from what she told me, it’s by no means certain that there is a boyfriend, new or otherwise. Mrs Lodge only thinks there is because, as she put it, “the girl’s been acting giddy lately”. Also, she says Gwyneth has been wearing a new perfume for the past couple of weeks, and Mrs Lodge is pretty sure she didn’t buy it herself.
‘There is one thing that suggests Mrs Lodge may be right,’ Molly continued. ‘Mrs Jones told me that Gwyneth had worked late several times during the past few weeks, but when I asked Mrs Lodge about that, she said Gwyneth only worked late if the Bromleys were entertaining in the evening, but that doesn’t happen very often during the summer months, and Gwyneth hadn’t been asked to work late for at least the past two months.’
‘It may or may not have anything to do with the killing of Toni Halliday,’ said Paget, ‘but I don’t like the sound of it, so you’d better get on it, Len.’ He turned to Molly to ask if she’d looked at Gwyneth’s room.
‘I did,’ Molly replied. ‘It was a bit of a jumble, so I just had a quick look round to see if there were any obvious clues to where she might have gone, but it will take some time to do a proper job.’
‘Someone else can do that,’ said Paget, ‘but I’d like you to start checking with Gwyneth’s friends to see if they know who her boyfriend is. She may have been more forthcoming with someone her own age than she was with her mother.’ He turned back to Ormside. ‘And let’s get some people out knocking on doors of the cottages along Manor Lane to find out if anyone saw Gwyneth after she left the manor last night.’
Ormside made a face. ‘Not many doors to knock on in that lane,’ he reminded Paget, ‘and it would be getting dark by the time Gwyneth left the manor.’
‘As for friends,’ said Molly, ‘Mrs Jones gave me a few names, but there aren’t very many. She said with the split shifts Gwyneth was working, from nine till two, and six till eight in the evening, she doesn’t have much time to have any close friends.
‘Did you get a picture of Gwyneth?’ Ormside asked.
‘I did, and it’s quite a good one,’ Molly told him. ‘Taken last year, and it should enlarge nicely.’
A uniformed policewoman approached Ormside’s desk. ‘This fax just came in, Sergeant,’ she said, handing him several sheets of paper. ‘It’s a prelim from Forensic.’
Ormside looked surprised. ‘On a Saturday?’ he said. ‘That’s got to be a first for Forensic. Somebody must have got the whip out.’
‘I had a quiet word with Peter Dexter yesterday,’ Paget told him. Dexter was a senior crime lab technician whom Paget had met during a conference at Hindlip Hall the year before. ‘He’s doing this as a favour, but I suspect it’s going to cost me dearly somewhere down the road.’ He spread the sheets on the desk for all to see.
It was, as the policewoman had said, a preliminary report, and it was sketchy, but almost anything was welcome at this stage of the investigation, and Paget gave a grunt of satisfaction when he read the first item on the list.
The green paint on the handle of the sickle matched the sample taken from the newly painted wall in the manor, which meant that the killer had been inside the manor while the paint was still drying. It confirmed Paget’s suspicions, but he knew it would not sit well with Morgan Brock, who was doing his level best to point the finger away from the family. Nor could anyone be excluded, because, according to Dr Starkie’s report, the sickle was extremely sharp, and the blows that killed Toni Halliday could have been delivered by a man or a woman.
Toxicology testing still had to be done, but there was a lengthy sub-section on what had been found in the farm manager’s office at the back of the barn.
In addition to the air mattress and the condoms Grace had mentioned, there was a sleeping bag, a blanket, a foot pump, several candles, a torch, and a small lantern.
‘A foot pump, no less,�
�� Tregalles exclaimed. ‘Probably wanted to save their breath for the main event.’
The vinyl-covered, blow-up mattress was the sort normally found in backyard swimming pools. Cheaply made, it was available in any one of hundreds of shops throughout the country, as was the sleeping bag. The blanket was no longer manufactured, but it had been a standard issue to Britain’s Armed Forces prior to 1998.
There was hair in abundance on the blanket and in the sleeping bag, including that of a dog. There were traces of face powder, lipstick, saliva, semen stains, and a variety of fibres on both as well, all of which had yet to be identified. But the two sets of fingerprints found on the torch, the candles and the lamp belonged to Gwyneth Jones and Major Farnsworth.
‘Farnsworth?’ Tregalles exclaimed. ‘When were his prints taken?’
‘They weren’t,’ Paget told him, ‘but they’d be on file with the military.’
‘But Farnsworth? And Gwyneth?’ The sergeant shook his head in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘Why would a nice kid like her take up with a randy old sod like Farnsworth? He must have been at least twice her age. What would she see in him?’
‘Could be he was different,’ Ormside said. ‘There’s not much to choose from among the local lads in these small villages, especially for a girl like Gwyneth Jones, who’s stuck in a dead-end job, and probably never ventured far from home. So when someone like the major comes along with his air of worldliness and sophistication, and starts chatting her up and making a fuss of her, she’d be easy prey. Age wouldn’t even come into it.’
‘Still . . .’
‘Well, whatever the reason,’ Paget said, ‘my main concern is to find the girl, and the sooner the better. If she was in the barn the night Toni Halliday was killed, that would explain a lot of things. Her tears weren’t for Toni Halliday, they were for the major. And if she was out there, she may have seen the killer.’
‘Or she could be the killer,’ Ormside said.
‘Gwyneth . . .?’ Tregalles scoffed. ‘You must be joking.’
‘You never know,’ Ormside said stubbornly. ‘If the Halliday woman caught her there in the barn, and there was a confrontation, Gwyneth could have grabbed the sickle and killed her. She may not have meant to, but all I’m saying is we shouldn’t rule her out.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Paget, ‘but I’m inclined to agree with Tregalles. I can’t quite see Gwyneth as a killer, and I certainly can’t see her coming to work next morning and sitting through an interview without going to pieces.’ He paused, eyes thoughtfully on Ormside as he said, ‘When I was checking the records of calls on Thursday evening, there was a phone call logged in shortly after nine o’clock. It came from the phone box in Hallows End. The caller was a woman, who said something terrible had happened “in the lane behind the house”, but she rang off when Control asked for details and asked for her name. Now I’m wondering if that woman could have been Gwyneth.’
‘Was there any follow up, do you know?’ Ormside asked.
Paget shook his head. ‘They didn’t have enough to go on, so it was shelved pending further information. We can check the phone box for prints, and see if we can recognize the voice on the tape.’
The phone on Ormside’s desk rang. He answered it, spoke briefly, then handed the phone to Paget, mouthing ‘Bromley’ as he did so.
The conversation was short, ending by Paget saying, ‘We’ll be there shortly, Mr Bromley, and thanks for letting me know.’ He hung up the phone.
‘Mr Bromley’s brother, Paul, turned up at the manor late last night,’ he said. ‘He claims he knew nothing about Toni Halliday’s death until he heard it on the news yesterday afternoon. Personally, I find that very hard to believe, but there’s only one way to find out, so let’s go, Tregalles.’
Margaret Bromley was alone when Paul entered the dining room. She glared at him. ‘You’ve got your nerve, coming back here,’ she said scathingly. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Charles told me you were back.’
Paul closed the door behind him and leaned against it. ‘Don’t be that way, Mags,’ he said. ‘I knew how you must be feeling, and regardless of our differences, I thought I should be here, so I came back as soon as I heard about Toni.’ He spread his hands. ‘It was the least I could do.’
Margaret’s lip curled. ‘The least you could do, Paul? Oh, yes, you’re very good at that, aren’t you? Doing the least.’ She walked toward him until they were almost touching. ‘Now tell me what really happened out there in the barn. You told her, didn’t you? You bastard! And then what happened? She turned on you, did she? Toni may have been many things, but she had spirit, which is more than I can say for you! Now look me in the eye and tell me that you didn’t kill her, Paul . . . if you dare!’
‘Kill her?’ he echoed. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mags, don’t be ridiculous. I told you what I was—’
‘I know what you told me, you lying bastard,’ she broke in, thrusting her face so close to his own that spittle flecked his face. ‘Some cock and bull story about falling asleep in your car, and I, like a fool, believed you.’
‘But it’s true. Honest to God, I swear, that’s what happened. I was never anywhere near the barn. The last time I saw Toni was when she went upstairs after dinner.’ Paul grasped her shoulders with both hands, and took a deep breath. ‘Please, Mags, think about it. I know I threatened to tell her, but I just said that to shake you up because you were being so bloody obstinate about the money. Honest to God, I never intended to carry it out. I knew she wouldn’t believe me if I did, so I went down to the car to get some tablets for my headache, and I sat there thinking about what to do and I fell asleep. Later, after I left you, there was no reason to stay any longer, so I left and drove straight back to London. For God’s sake, think, Margaret. I didn’t like her; she could be a nasty little bitch – and you should know that better than anyone, but you’ll never admit it, will you? But I had no reason to kill her.’
His voice changed. ‘But I will admit I wasn’t in the car all the time. I stood in the doorway waiting for the rain to ease up before making a dash for the house, and there was more going on out there than I’ve told that chief inspector. But I’m saving that for later.’
Margaret Bromley’s suspicious eyes never left his face as she shook herself free and stepped back. ‘You . . .’ she began, but whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a sharp rapping on the door behind Paul, and a voice they both recognized as that of Elizabeth Etherton.
‘Paul? Paul, is that you?’ she called. ‘This door seems to be stuck. Could you try it from your side, please?’
FIFTEEN
The past few days had been unseasonably warm, but today there was a welcome lightness to the air, and a thin band of feathered clouds drifted lazily across the sky as the two detectives drove the short distance up the hill to Bromley Manor.
Mrs Lodge let them in, and Paget questioned her again about Gwyneth, but she could add nothing to what she had told Molly on the phone. ‘I just hope she hasn’t gone and done something foolish, that’s all,’ the housekeeper said over her shoulder as she left the kitchen to find Mr Bromley for them.
The smell of paint still lingered in the passageway. Green paint – except for a patch of yellow down in the corner by the door – where Grace had taken a small sample for forensic examination. Paget examined the wall beneath the clothes hooks, and saw marks where something had rubbed against the paint while it was still wet.
Mrs Lodge returned, followed by a concerned Charles Bromley.
‘What’s this I hear about Gwyneth?’ he asked Paget. ‘Mrs Lodge tells me she’s missing.’
‘She is,’ Paget said, ‘and I’m wondering if she said anything to you about going away?’
Charles shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘Are you sure she didn’t say anything to you, Mrs Lodge?’
‘Quite sure,’ the housekeeper said firmly, ‘and she would have done if she’d known ahea
d of time. It’s not like her to go off without telling me.’
‘Can you think of anywhere she might have gone? Has she spoken of any friends or relatives . . .?’
‘Don’t think she has any apart from her mum,’ said Mrs Lodge. ‘The two of them are more like sisters; they go around everywhere together when she’s not working.’
Charles looked at his watch. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,’ he said, ‘but I have an appointment in town within the hour. The funeral arrangements for Toni.’ He started to turn away, then paused. ‘I suppose I should tell you,’ he said grudgingly, ‘that the jewels you found among Toni’s things were not the only ones she stole. Margaret told me last night that Toni must have been stealing from her all the time she was here, so I’m preparing a list for the insurance people. It’s quite a lengthy one. Bernard Halliday used to bring Margaret jewellery every time he came home from one of his trips. He’d make a big fuss about giving it to her, then he’d ignore her for the rest of the time he was there. I expect you would like a copy of the missing pieces as well? I could fax it to you.’
‘Please do,’ Paget said. ‘The sooner we can circulate the descriptions, the better. Do you have pictures of each piece?’
‘No, but I’m sure the insurance company will have, and I can give you their name.’
Paget wrote the name down.
Charles looked at his watch. ‘Now I really must go,’ he said briskly, ‘so unless there is anything more . . .?’
‘Just one thing,’ Paget said. ‘Do you mind if we use your study while you’re gone?’
‘Ah, yes, of course, you’ll want to see Paul?’ said Charles. ‘And if there is anything you need, just ask Mrs Lodge. I’m sure she will be happy to oblige.’
Paul Bromley was thinner and less robust than his brother. At least, that was Paget’s first impression of the man as he faced him across the desk. There was a superficial similarity in build and facial characteristics, but Paul’s features seemed to lack the definition and strength so marked in his brother.