by Deryn Lake
‘One last thing, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the inspector loudly, drawing all eyes back to him, ‘I must impress on you that though the killer might have struck for the last time, it is possible that even at this very moment he might be somewhere in Lakehurst, or even sitting in this hall, contemplating his next move. I must enjoin you all to take care. Goodnight and thank you.’
He sat down and whispered to Potter, ‘How was that?’
‘Very good, apart from those interruptions by that fellow Boggis. Rude old bastard.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
But further conversation was impossible as various people bore down on them. Tennant found himself overwhelmed by the exotic smell of Mitsouko. Roseanna and Richard Culpepper were approaching him, wreathed in smiles.
Tonight she was wearing a slightly more fashionable slouch hat, her hair pulled back within its depths. Studying her, Tennant was overwhelmed by the fact that she must have been as stunning as Garbo in her heyday. Great cheekbones stood out under enormous eyes that even with all the wear of time held enchantment in their depths. Long – and natural – eyelashes drooped down in a face that once must have been quite magical. He almost felt overpowered by her presence but sensed that she hung back with a shyness that surely was not natural to her.
Beside her Richard had the slightly sad air of an actor who was destined to play bit parts all his life. His handsome forehead was sprinkled with a light perspiration and his slicked back hair hung down on his collar. He was trying desperately to look like a West End success and failing wretchedly. He held out his hand.
‘Good evening, sir. I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting as yet. I’m playing a part in London which includes Sundays, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh yes, Mr Culpepper. How do you do? I’ve already heard about your London engagement. You managed to get away this evening, though?’
‘Yes, and I am so glad I did. I hadn’t realized quite how horrendous things had become in Lakehurst. Roseanna tries to shield me from the grisliest facts, don’t you angel?’
He gave her waist an affectionate squeeze. She smiled up at him and it occurred to the inspector that she was actually in love with this ageing matinee idol.
‘So how come you are with us tonight?’ Tennant asked.
‘Actually the show was cancelled. The leading lady went down with tonsillitis, or some such thing.’
‘And no understudy?’
‘I’m afraid it’s only fringe theatre,’ Richard said with a sheepish grin.
‘I see.’
‘But it is very unlikely to happen again so please keep a special eye out for my wife, Inspector. I can’t bear to think of her living alone and being frightened.’
‘Could she not join you in your hotel in London?’ the inspector enquired.
‘Actually they are theatrical digs and not the sort of place I’d like Roseanna to have to live in.’
‘Well in that case I would advise that she went to stay with friends until this situation has sorted itself out.’
Richard’s expression became extremely earnest. ‘Unfortunately they all live miles away. It would be totally impractical.’
He’s got an answer for everything, thought Tennant. He smiled and said, ‘We’ll do our best to protect her, Mr Culpepper.’
‘Thanks so much,’ said Culpepper, and wrung Tennant’s hand.
He was stopped on the way out by the woman with the tumbling mass of black hair who identified herself immediately.
‘Hello, Mr Inspector. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Cheryl Hamilton-Harty. I run a riding school out at Speckled Wood.’
Tennant smiled. ‘Any relation to the famous musician?’
She gave him a totally blank glance and said, ‘Was he in Queen?’
He ignored that and went on. ‘I believe my sergeant came to interview you.’
‘Yes. Very sweet. But I like dealing with the top man.’ She leant on him a little and said, ‘Would it be forward of me to invite you for a drink or are you still on duty?’
He wasn’t actually and he was briefly tempted to say no. And then he thought of her reputation and definitely decided to accept.
‘No, I’m not. Shall we go to The Great House?’
She gave him a brilliant glance. ‘No, let’s go to The White Hart. It doesn’t get as crowded.’
She drove him down Arrow Street in a very large four by four with a dog in the back which growled at Tennant suspiciously.
‘Oh shut up, Fern,’ Cheryl shouted at it.
It subsided but Tennant was aware of its eyes boring into his back and felt that on the slightest provocation it would take a bite out of him.
‘Good guard dog,’ he remarked.
‘Yeah. I’ve got another one at home. Mother and daughter. I call the daughter Flora. She’s watching the house while I’m out.’
‘Good idea.’
He was beginning to wish that he had bowed out of the arrangement but some devilish side of him had made him accept the invitation. As they walked into The White Hart somebody let out a low whistle and another hidden voice remarked, ‘Chattin’ up the police now, are we Cheryl?’ She giggled but said nothing and marched through the bar to a small alcove at the back where she plonked herself down. Tennant was left with no alternative but to ask her what she wanted to drink.
‘I’ll have a G and T, thanks.’
A wary-eyed Kylie served him, looking beyond his shoulder to where Ms Hamilton-Harty sat.
‘Gran’s poorly, Mr Tennant,’ she murmured.
‘I’ll look in on her tomorrow,’ he said and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.
‘She’d like that,’ she answered, and he thought how ill the poor girl looked.
Cheryl meanwhile had arranged her admirable figure into what she thought of as a provocative pose. The inspector had to admit that she was quite attractive though much older than she would admit to and extremely lined around the eyes, which on close inspection were quite small and hard and a rather insipid shade of blue.
‘Cheers,’ she said, clinking her glass against his.
‘Cheers,’ he replied, wishing he were somewhere else.
‘Well now, tell me everything,’ she said, and under the table he felt one of her feet play round one of his. He sat back, removing it as he did so.
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Who do you think is behind all these killings for a start.’
‘I don’t know and even if I did I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Who do you think?’
Cheryl gave him a teasing smile and giggled relentlessly. ‘I think it’s old Jack Boggis.’
Tennant hid his look of surprise. ‘Why?’
‘He’s such an oddball. He lives alone, drinks himself stupid, doesn’t have a woman in his life despite his lechy behaviour, and hardly eats a thing.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought those were the characteristics of a typical murderer.’
‘Well I think he’s a dirty old man. He always stops when he drives past the riding stables and comes in for a peer round.’
‘I see. And where does he go when he drives off?’
Cheryl ran her hand through her luxuriant hair and screwed her eyes up in merriment. ‘How would I know? He could be going to Tunbridge Wells, Crowborough, who cares? I think he’s probably snooping round the house of that stuck-up Olivia Beauchamp.’
‘Surely you don’t mean that he burgles it?’
‘No, she’s probably given him a key.’
Tennant actually stopped listening, convinced that he was hearing the ramblings of a mega bitch. But whether his eyes glazed over or his expression became vacant, Cheryl guessed the truth.
‘I think you’re very rude,’ she said, a teasing expression on her face. She bit her lower lip, a habit that Tennant couldn’t abide. ‘You’re not paying me any attention.’
He guessed that this was one of her lines so he simply said, ‘You say that to all the boys.’
She lo
oked fractionally put out and fortunately at that moment there was a welcome interruption. Potter panted in appearing out of breath and very slightly irritable.
‘Oh here you are, sir. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I got quite panicky. No one seemed to know where you were.’
‘Well, sit down a minute while I finish my drink. Miss Hamilton-Harty this is Sergeant Potter.’
‘Hello,’ she said, looking Potter up and down and then giving him a long, slow smile which meant she preferred him to Tennant. ‘How very nice to see you again.’
The inspector recalled, somewhat late, that Potter had already interviewed her.
‘Oh you two have met,’ he said.
‘Oh yes,’ said Cheryl, giving Potter an upward glance. ‘I promised to take him riding on one of his days off.’
‘Yes,’ answered Tennant, ‘I’m quite sure you did.’
TWELVE
Having extricated themselves from the clutches of Ms Hamilton-Harty, Potter drove swiftly up Arrow Street but drew to a stop outside The Great House.
‘There are quite a lot of people inside who want to see you, sir. I do think you could pay them a courtesy call. Ceinwen Carruthers and the Pixie People are all expecting you.’
Tennant groaned. ‘I feel like bed, to be perfectly honest.’
Potter muttered something inaudible.
‘What?’
‘I said anything to do with Cheryl, sir.’
‘If I weren’t so tired I’d have you on a charge of insubordination,’ said Tennant, straight-faced.
Potter began to apologize, not quite certain, but the inspector cut across him. ‘Now go and park the car, there’s a good chap, and I’ll just go in and chat briefly.’
He had been mixing his drinks, that was the trouble, and Tennant felt himself break out in a sweat as he entered that heaving mass of people, all anxious to have a word with him.
‘Ha, Inspector, I was wondering if you would come in. Allow me to buy you a drink.’ It was the would-be superstar, Richard Culpepper, who spoke.
‘Thanks very much I’ll have a glass of red wine, please.’
He knew he shouldn’t drink any more but felt that if he didn’t get a decent night’s sleep tonight he would be totally wrecked.
Richard turned to the bar and once again the inspector beheld the gorgeous face of Roseanna. He wondered what her age was and guessed that she was about sixty and her husband some fifteen years younger. And then he had a memory flash which was gone before he could grasp it. Just for a second he knew that face and then the next second he felt he must have dreamt it. He was still shaking his head slightly when Richard came back with a large glass of red wine.
Ceinwen Carruthers sashayed up. ‘Forgive me, I’m not interrupting?’
‘Not at all,’ said Richard, being frightfully charming.
‘I just want to say, Inspector Tennant, that I thought your presentation tonight was terribly good. I mean we Pixie Poets really took it to heart.’
‘Oh I’m pleased.’
He glanced round to where they stood, their numbers now down to four, the men stalwartly drinking lager and lime, the women with glasses of pineapple clutched bravely to their breasts. Richard followed Tennant’s gaze and shot him a look of amusement.
‘I’m so glad you enjoyed it,’ Richard said.
Ceinwen looked startled, her nostrils flaring. ‘I would have hardly used the word enjoy, Mr Culpepper.’
‘Sorry, that was foolish of me. I was thinking theatre. Would you like a drink Miss Carruthers?’
‘No thank you. I have had sufficient.’
She bowed her head to the inspector then stalked away to rejoin her group of fellow poets.
‘Oh dear,’ Richard said. ‘I think I’ve put my foot in it.’
‘Never mind, darling. You meant well,’ Roseanna answered, and the drooping mouth swept up into a radiant smile.
‘Tell me about your show,’ said Tennant, very slightly jealous of someone who had made a career out of acting.
‘Oh, it’s a mere trifle. It’s by the winner of the St Pancras award. It’s called Major No More.’
Suddenly the inspector felt too tired and too apathetic to ask any further questions. He just wanted to get back to his flat in Lewes and have a good sleep. But Richard hadn’t finished with him yet.
‘I play the part of a forensics expert. It’s an amusing cameo. The only light spot in the whole thing really.’
‘I’ve yet to see it,’ Roseanna said huskily. ‘I shall go next week.’
‘It will be a pleasure to have you there, darling.’
It occurred to Tennant, rather cruelly, that the former actress had made the money and that Richard was more or less her toy boy, and that he worked to fuel his vanity and not because he was bringing home the bacon.
He said, ‘It has been a pleasure talking to you both. And now if you will forgive me . . .’
But Lakehurst still hadn’t done with him. Ivy Bagshot swept up to him, teeth flashing. ‘Ah, Inspector,’ she exhaled, ‘I just wanted to say well done for tonight. I think you have inspired a sense of community in the village, I truly do.’
She smelt of ham sandwich and Tennant recoiled slightly.
‘For example, Ceinwen Carruthers accepting a lift from me.’
‘Why should that surprise you?’
‘Because she doesn’t approve of the WI. Thinks we’re a lot of dowdy old fuddy-duddies.’
Tennant manfully said nothing.
‘Have you ever thought of becoming a speaker? Because if so I am sure the Lakehurst branch would be most interested in booking you.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have time for that,’ the inspector answered, looking round the room for Potter to rescue him, then saw him having an altercation with Jack Boggis. ‘Potter,’ he called, and a note in his voice must have told his junior officer that he needed rescuing.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Time I went home, I think. I feel fit to drop.’ He turned to Ivy Bagshot. ‘If you will forgive me, madam. It’s been a long day.’
‘Of course. Thank you again.’
She went to rejoin her group, signalling to Ceinwen Carruthers as she did so.
‘What did you say to bloody old Boggis?’
‘I told him that any further interruptions at a meeting would be treated as impeding officers in their course of duty and could lead to arrest.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He started waffling about freedom of speech but I just turned on my heel and left him.’
‘Good. I’m beginning to heartily dislike the fellow.’
‘So am I,’ said Potter with feeling.
Having walked home with Kasper, Nick plunged into the vicarage to hear the phone ringing. His heart sank as he heard the voice of Sonia Tate.
‘Oh hello, Father Nick.’ The volume dropped sexily. ‘How are you? I’ve been thinking about you. Worrying about you.’
Nick’s eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Were you at the lecture tonight?’
‘Yes. I was sitting near the back. I was offered a lift home and I took it. Nick, when is this dreadful business going to stop?’
‘I wish I knew, Mrs Tate.’
‘Sonia, please.’
‘Sonia,’ he said reluctantly.
‘Anyway I haven’t rung you to discuss that.’
‘No?’ Nick answered feebly, certain that he knew what was coming.
He was right. ‘I was ringing up about our dinner date. When are you free?’
‘Sonia, I have decided to stay at home as much as possible at the moment. Obviously parish duties must continue but I feel that other than those we would all do as well to stay put.’
She tinkled a laugh at him, a sound which had him holding the receiver away from his ear.
‘But I don’t have any parish duties.’
‘You know what I mean. I think we should all be especially careful.’
‘In other words you don’t want to come.’
&nb
sp; ‘It’s not that,’ Nick lied, ‘it’s just that I feel we should all be listening to the police advice and not socializing at the moment.’
‘No, you’re right I suppose.’
She sounded bitterly disappointed and Nick felt a pang of guilt but quickly dismissed that when he thought of her reputation. He considered her age and guessed at sixty-five minimum. Not, he reprimanded himself, that there was anything wrong with that, provided that one looked like Joan Collins of course.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘but I think it’s more sensible.’
‘Yes, of course. Another time then.’
‘Certainly. Another time.’
He went into the kitchen, justifying himself. It really wasn’t safe to move round Lakehurst at present, not at night anyway. He wondered briefly whether Sonia Tate could be the murderer and that was why she was so confident about going out nocturnally. Then he dismissed the idea because in actual fact he hadn’t a clue who it might be. All he could pray was that it was someone who lived outside the village and just roved in with killing on his or her mind.
Nick had locked the church’s main doors at dusk and had had the vestry lock changed a few days previously. In fact he was due to give the new keys on Sunday to those who had claim to one. Yet he felt hesitant about doing so. Suppose it was a member of the choir who had fled past him in the darkness leaving him feeling afraid and nervous.
The vicar couldn’t help smiling to himself as he thought about that idea. Half of them were elderly women with quavering voices, their leader a well-preserved seventy who boomed out so loudly that she drowned the rest. Absolutely nobody had had the courage to tell her that her voice had been shot to shreds years ago. The other half were assorted ages and sizes, two boy sopranos who, no doubt, would have the old ladies in tears at Christmas time; three very spotty schoolboys; one gay young man with bright red hair and masses of after shave. The rest were elderly men in various stages of baldery.
The only one of those who had any possibilities as the killer was the gay fellow whose name, improbably, was Broderick Crawford, presumably after some long-dead film star. The vicar wondered whether to withhold the key from him but decided that would make him feel put upon and Nick might get reported for being a homophobe. He sighed, wishing that the murderer would be caught quickly so that all the problems could be solved.