by Frank Smith
‘And how is that, Mr Bromley?’ Tregalles asked.
Julian made a face. ‘He treats her as if she were one of the family,’ he said. ‘If one didn’t know better one might wonder . . .’ He broke off in mid-sentence to wave a dismissive hand. ‘There’s no need to put that in your notes, Sergeant,’ he said airily ‘That was meant to be a joke. I mean we are talking about my father, brilliant surgeon, magistrate, pillar of the community, and all-round good fellow.’
‘So why suggest it if you don’t think it’s true? I seem to remember you suggesting much the same thing when you were talking about your stepmother and Dr Lockwood. Was that meant to be a joke as well?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Julian said irritably. ‘There’s no need to take something like that literally. It was just one of those off-the-cuff remarks one makes.’
‘Then I suggest you consider your answers more carefully in future,’ Tregalles said bluntly. ‘We do tend to take things seriously in a murder investigation. Now, when was the last time you saw Gwyneth Jones?’
Julian gazed upward, appearing to concentrate. The pose might have worked on stage, but it wasn’t doing much for Tregalles’s patience. ‘Difficult question, is it sir?’ he asked with barely concealed sarcasm.
‘I’m trying to comply with your obsession with time,’ Julian shot back. ‘It was at dinner last night.’
‘Do you have any information that could help us find her?’
‘No, I do not! So can I go now, Sergeant?’
Julian Bromley had gone, and Tregalles was glad to see the back of him. ‘What that lad needs is a swift boot up the backside!’ he muttered savagely as he stuffed his notebook into his pocket. The boy – hell, he must be twenty-five or -six, but he was acting more like a spoiled teenager – seemed to lack all feeling other than for his own wellbeing. He’d displayed no emotion over the death of Toni Halliday. Nor had he shown any concern or even interest in the disappearance of Gwyneth Jones.
Was it a pose? Was it possible that there was more to Julian Bromley than the seemingly uncaring layabout who had just left the room? Was it possible that Julian had killed Toni? Certainly he’d been worried about what she might say. He could have followed her to the barn, perhaps pleaded with her not to name him as the father, then struck her down when she refused to listen.
Reluctantly, Tregalles shook his head. Julian was not that good an actor. But he had said one thing that intrigued the sergeant, and that was the throwaway remark about Charles Bromley’s treatment of Gwyneth, and the veiled suggestion that there could be more to it than that. He’d insisted he’d been joking, but why mention it even as a joke unless there was something behind it? Worth keeping in mind, anyway, Tregalles thought as he left the room.
On his way out, Tregalles met Mrs Lodge in the hall, and stopped to ask her if she knew Dr Steven Lockwood’s telephone number. ‘It’s on the pad beside the kitchen phone,’ she told him. ‘Had one of her funny turns again, then, has she?’ she asked archly. ‘That man must spend more time here than he does with the rest of his patients put together. Not that he seems to mind, and he is a very good doctor; I go to him myself. Still, you can’t help but wonder, can you?’
‘Wonder, Mrs Lodge? Tregalles asked innocently.
The housekeeper glanced up and down the deserted hall as if fearful of being overheard, then lowered her voice. ‘Not that it’s any of my business, of course,’ she said, distancing herself from what she was about to say, ‘but I think it’s all in her head, and I don’t like to see poor Mr Charles getting so upset about it. In fact,’ she added boldly, ‘I think she’s putting it on. All those blank stares of hers. I mean, I ask you! Worrying Mr Charles like that. The poor man’s got enough on his plate as it is.’
‘But why, Mrs Lodge? Why would Mrs Bromley do such a thing?
The housekeeper drew back. ‘All I’m saying is that every time she has one of her bad turns, Dr Lockwood is here within the hour, day or night.’
Tregalles did his best to look mystified. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why would he have to come every time Mrs Bromley has a short lapse of memory?’
‘Oh, it’s not just those,’ the housekeeper said disdainfully. ‘It’s the fits and the nightmares that has poor Mr Charles up half the night calming her down.’
‘Really?’ Tregalles said. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Two or three months, must be,’ the housekeeper said. ‘He’d like her to go into hospital for observation, but she won’t go. Says she can’t stand hospitals, and Mr Charles says he won’t force her to go.’
Mrs Lodge leaned closer. ‘If you ask me, I think it’s because she’s afraid they’ll find out it is all in her head.’ She lowered her voice even further. ‘Or she’s putting it on a bit, and she’s afraid they’ll find that out.’ The housekeeper stepped back. ‘But like I said, it’s none of my business, Sergeant, and since Mr Charles isn’t here, I’d best go up and see what I can do. And you’d best get on and ring Dr Lockwood.’
‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong with Mrs Bromley,’ Tregalles told her. ‘At least she was fine when I left her a short time ago. She’s just gone up to rest. I need to ring Dr Lockwood to make an appointment to see him myself.’
Having copied Lockwood’s number down, Tregalles made his way outside before calling it and reaching the doctor’s answering service.
Tregalles left a message, then made his way down the side of the house to the row of garages. Paul’s car was parked in the end garage, and at least he’d been right about one thing: anyone sitting in the driver’s seat would be completely hidden from the view of someone glancing in as they went by. But that still didn’t mean he was actually sitting there when Mrs Bromley looked in. Nor, for that matter, did it prove that Mrs Bromley’s story was true. They had both lied about other things, and it was quite possible that they were lying about where they were as well. Never mind Mrs Lodge’s suspicions about Margaret Bromley’s relationship with Lockwood; what about her relationship with Paul? After all, she was a very attractive woman, and life here at the manor must be pretty dull for her, especially after being married to a man like Bernard Halliday. Charles seemed like a decent enough man, and he did seem to be genuinely concerned about his wife’s health, but he hadn’t struck Tregalles as the most exciting man he’d ever met.
It was such a pleasant day that he decided to walk down to the village, and call in on Thorsen on the way. But there was no answer to his repeated knock on the cottage door, and the lady next door came out to tell him that Thorsen had gone into Clunbridge, and she didn’t know when he would be back. In answer to Tregalles’s question about Gwyneth, she said she knew Gwyneth Jones, but she hadn’t seen her go by the previous evening. ‘But I would have been doing the ironing about that time,’ she explained, ‘so I wouldn’t, would I? But you might try Mr Evans down at the end,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘He works in the garden most evenings. He might have seen her.’
Mr Evans turned out to be a robust man of eighty whose life now centred on his garden, and it was with some difficulty that Tregalles managed to turn him from his favourite subject.
Oh, yes, he said, he’d seen Gwyneth go by last night. He said she often waved and had a word as she rode past. But not last night. ‘Went right past without a word,’ he said. ‘In a hurry to get home, I shouldn’t wonder. It was getting dark and she had no lights, so I expect she wanted to get on. I called out, but she went right on by without saying a word. Funny, that. She always waves.’
SEVENTEEN
Dr Lockwood called back while Tregalles was having lunch at the Cobbler’s Last in Hallows End, and they arranged to meet later in the afternoon. ‘Let’s say three o’clock, shall we? I should be free by then,’ he told Tregalles. ‘I’m on duty at the Cleebury Hill Climb until two, so I’ll meet you in the Cross Keys in Clunbridge? That’s assuming no one here breaks their neck before then and I’m held up. But if they do I’ll let you know,’ he added cheerfully. ‘It’
s blazing hot out here, and I’ll be needing a drink by then.’
Tregalles finished his ham and cheese baguette, washed down with a pint of Theakstons Best, then made his way to the parish hall, where he found Ormside and Molly in a sombre mood.
‘Not a thing,’ Molly told him when Tregalles asked if there was any word on Gwyneth. ‘The trouble is, she doesn’t have any close friends. Almost everyone in Hallows End knows her, but she didn’t have much of a social life. Hardly surprising, when you consider the odd hours she worked. When she did have time off, she spent most of it reading, according to her mother, and judging by the number of Mills & Boon romance novels I found in Gwyneth’s room, I suspect she’s an incurable romantic.’
‘And probably a bit naïve when it comes to men,’ Tregalles suggested. ‘So she’d be easy prey for someone who could string a good line, like the major, even though he was more than twice her age.’
‘I suppose,’ said Molly doubtfully, ‘but then I never met him, so I can’t really say. What was he like?’
‘Superior, snobby. Thought a lot of himself. Very much the old-school military man. Good looking in a flash sort of way. I couldn’t take to him.’
Molly smiled. ‘But then, you’re not a young girl with a head full of romantic ideas, are you, Sergeant?’ she said. ‘And I very much doubt if you have ever read a bodice ripper in your life. Right?’
‘Bodice ripper, eh?’ Tregalles eyed Molly as if seeing her in a new light. ‘Sounds as if I might have been missing something. Is that what you read?’
‘Used to read when I was very much younger,’ she admitted. ‘But then I joined the police, and reality set in.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Tregalles said, ‘how did last night go with your Chinese doctor? What was his name?’
‘He’s a surgeon, so it’s Mr David Chen to you, Sergeant,’ Molly said, sounding more defensive than she’d intended. ‘And he is not Chinese. His grandparents were Chinese, but he’s second-generation British, born and bred.’
Tregalles grinned. ‘Well, whatever he is, he certainly took a shine to you, didn’t he? And I bet it didn’t end with just giving him a lift home did it? Take you out last night, did he?’
Molly could feel her face becoming warm. ‘Well, the man is down here on his own,’ she said stiffly, ‘and with the Starkies away for the evening, he asked if I could recommend a good restaurant, then asked me to join him, because he didn’t like to eat alone.’
‘In other words, a date. Nice going Molly. Where did you go?’
‘The Tudor, but it wasn’t really a date as such, it was—’
‘Sounds like a date to me,’ Tregalles interrupted. ‘Take you home, did he? I mean he could hardly take you back to the Starkies’ could he? Invite him in, did you? You know, a nightcap to finish things off, and then—’
‘And then nothing!’ Molly said firmly. ‘We had a very pleasant dinner, coffee in the lounge afterwards, and then he took me home. End of story.’
Tregalles chuckled. ‘But you’re seeing him again, aren’t you? Did you ask him if he’s married? Good looking chap, a doctor – oops! Pardon me! I mean a surgeon – it would be surprising if he isn’t. And if he isn’t, why not, eh?’
‘If you’re that interested, perhaps you should bring him in for questioning,’ Molly replied in an attempt to make light of the matter, but Tregalles wasn’t to be put off.
His grin grew wider. ‘Must be serious for you to get so het up about it,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen your face that colour since you walked into the men’s by mistake.’ His expression changed to one of mock concern. ‘But I must say I am relieved. To tell the truth, Molly, with you being without a boyfriend for so long, I was beginning to wonder about you. If you know what I mean?’
‘Oh, I know exactly what you mean,’ Molly said tartly as she turned away. She’d had a lovely time last night, and she didn’t want anything or anyone to spoil it. She’d felt very comfortable with David Chen, and she was looking forward to seeing him again.
‘If you don’t mind, Tregalles,’ Ormside broke in heavily, ‘some of us have other things on our minds beside Forsythe’s love life, so can we please get on? What did Paul Bromley have to say for himself?’
Tregalles and Ormside were working together transcribing key points of information to the whiteboards, when the door opened and Paget walked in.
‘Didn’t expect to see you out here again today,’ Tregalles greeted him. ‘Has something happened?’
‘The hospital administrator rang me and we discussed the circumstances surrounding the death of Major Farnsworth,’ Paget told him, ‘so I thought it best to come out and explain things to Mrs Farnsworth myself. Anything new on Gwyneth Jones?’
Tregalles shook his head. ‘Haven’t talked to Mrs Etherton, yet,’ he said, ‘but I doubt if she knows any more than the rest of them up there. Mr Evans, who lives in the same row of cottages as Thorsen, says he saw Gwyneth go by on her way home last night. He said she usually waves, but she didn’t last night. Just went sailing straight past without a word.’
Paget shot a questioning look at Ormside, who shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We still have one or two people to talk to in the village, lads and girls around her own age, but none of them are considered to be more than acquaintances, so I’m not holding my breath. We’ve spoken to the bus driver who was on the local run last night – the last one left Hallows End at ten past nine; the one before that left around seven, so she couldn’t have been on that – and he said there were only five people on the bus, and none of them came close to matching Gwyneth’s description.’
The sergeant drew in a long breath. ‘I could be wrong,’ he said in a way that said he didn’t think so, ‘and I know she’s only been missing for a few hours, but I have a bad feeling about this. According to her mother, Gwyneth has no money to speak of, and she’s never done anything like this before. I know it’s early days, but I think we should go to the media now and get her picture out there.’
Paget nodded agreement. ‘As a matter of fact I had a word with the press officer this afternoon,’ he said, ‘but I told her to hold off until I’d spoken to you again. So, give her a call, send her a copy of the picture of Gwyneth, and tell her I’d like to see it on the news tonight if at all possible. She has the details.’
Lower Farm was a farm in name only. It consisted of the house itself, a rambling two-storey place built of local stone, and a farmyard now seeded entirely to grass. The house and the land around it was owned by Ewan Davies at Top Farm, high up on the brow of the hill. He’d bought the hillside farm, known locally as Lower Farm, some years ago, but, not needing a second house, he’d been letting it out ever since. The major and Mrs Farnsworth had been there just over six months.
All this Paget learned while Mrs Farnsworth made tea. Now, seated in comfortable armchairs on either side of the open fireplace, an awkward silence fell between them.
‘You may find some of the questions I have to ask distasteful,’ Paget warned, ‘but I’m afraid they have to be asked.’
Mrs Farnsworth set her cup aside. ‘I quite understand,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think there is anything you can tell me that will shock me, so please, don’t feel embarrassed on my account. I expect it will all have to come out at the inquest anyway?’
‘You’re thinking now of an inquest into your husband’s death?’ he said.
‘Why, yes, of course.’
Paget shook his head. ‘That’s not the main reason for my being here,’ he said. ‘But since we’re on the subject, I should tell you that Nurse Adamu has no intention of causing any trouble. As far as she and the hospital are concerned, the major was hallucinating, probably due to the injuries he received the night before, and the injuries to his face occurred when she tried to hold him down. But she couldn’t hold him, and he struck his head when he fell out of bed – which, in the broad sense at least, is quite true. When I spoke to her late last night, she said she’d suffered no serious harm or in
jury, and all she wanted to do was forget about it.’
‘But you . . . the police . . .?’
Paget shook his head. ‘I’ve had a word with my chief superintendent, and he feels there is nothing to be gained by pursuing the matter further.’ In fact, Morgan Brock had been more than thankful to see the incident swept well and truly under the rug. The last thing he wanted was to have the details of the major’s untimely death linked in any way to the Bromley investigation.
Mrs Farnsworth picked up her cup again and looked at Paget over the rim. Her hand shook as she sipped her tea. ‘If you should see Nurse Adamu again,’ she said softly, ‘I’d appreciate it very much if you would tell her how much I appreciate what she’s doing. I’m very grateful.’
‘I shall,’ Paget promised her. ‘But, while I’m here, I would like to ask you about the events of Thursday evening; when Toni Halliday was killed.’
Harriett Farnsworth became very still. ‘You believe that Adrian killed that girl, don’t you?’ she said softly. ‘But you’re wrong, you know. He isn’t . . . wasn’t a bad man. It’s just that, after the accident, it was as if he had to prove that he could still . . . That he was still a man.’
She sighed. ‘He had a temper, I won’t deny that. And it became worse after his accident. He would get so frustrated. But he would never kill anyone. Not like that . . .’ Her voice trailed off raggedly.
Paget had considered the possibility that Farnsworth had killed Toni, and had then been struck down himself by some third person, but it seemed an unlikely theory. Now, however, faced with the evidence of his association with Gwyneth, and his attack on Nurse Adamu, it might be time to reconsider. Given the major’s proclivity toward young women, it was just possible that he had made advances towards Toni.
‘Have there been other cases such as occurred in the hospital last night, Mrs Farnsworth?’