by Pat Herbert
“Look here, Mrs Aitch, as much as I appreciate what you do for me and your lovely cooking, it’s me who employs you, not the other way about. I’ll expect dinner at two o’clock. All right?”
Nancy Harper stared at him. He had never spoken to her in that way before. However, she only shrugged. Whether or not that meant she would obey his wish, Bernard could only hope so.
He turned to stalk out of the kitchen, a little shaken after his uncharacteristic outburst. Then he remembered why he had come to see her in the first place.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, turning back. “I’ve just shown that old colonel out. Do you know anything about him, Mrs Aitch?”
“That old boozer? Gladys – Mrs Selfridge – was talking about ’im to me only the other day.”
“Indeed? Is he – er, quite sane, do you think?”
“Don’t know about that. Bats in the belfry, I shouldn’t wonder. Gladys told me ’e’d asked ’er to marry ’im. Before ’er ’ubby was even cold in the ground and all. Bloomin’ cheek. Anyway, she gave ’im short shrift, that’s all I know.”
“Right. Yes, I see. But do you think that what he says can be relied upon? Is he known for telling untruths? Does he incline to fantasize? Make things up?”
“What are you driving at, Vicar?”
“Oh, it’s just something he told me just now. I wondered if – well, if he was just a little bit – er, you know….”
“Not the full shilling, you mean?”
“Yes. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but he told me himself he was a drinker, so I just needed to be sure he wasn’t just – you know – “
“’Aving a laugh?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, all I can say is, ’e may be a bit of a drunk, but I never ’eard of ‘im telling fibs or anything like that. Why? What did ’e tell you?” Mrs Harper was consumed with curiosity.
“Oh, nothing much. Nothing you need concern yourself with, Mrs Aitch.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Jenkins has come up with something interesting, guv.”
Inspector Craddock was sitting in the police canteen, wading through a plateful of sausage, eggs and bacon as Brian Rathbone joined him at his table, carrying a tray on which were a modest cheese salad and an apple.
Craddock looked at the meagre meal in disgust. “You don’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive, Rathbone,” he commented.
“Marion always has a hot meal waiting for me when I get home,” said Rathbone, generously lacing his food with salad cream. “Anyway, the stuff you’re eating will fur up your arteries and give you a heart attack before you’re fifty.”
Already forty-seven, Craddock didn’t entirely welcome his subordinate’s observation, but decided to ignore it.
“Never mind all that,” he said, munching on a particularly large and juicy chunk of sausage. “What’s this ‘interesting’ thing that Jenkins has come up with?”
“Well, Jenkins was speaking to young Percy Banks – you know, the butcher’s in the High Street…”
“Hmm,” said Craddock, dipping a fried slice into his egg. “Well?”
“Well, this Percy said he saw Helen enter the Rowans’ cottage on the afternoon of her murder. It was about five o’clock, he said.”
Craddock slammed the table, causing the salad cream bottle to leap onto the floor. “At last!” he exclaimed. “A breakthrough!”
“Yes, so it would seem,” agreed Rathbone, retrieving the bottle which was, thankfully, unbroken. “It means the Rowan sisters could be involved, doesn’t it? We were quick to dismiss the rumours about them, but it looks like we were wrong, doesn’t it?”
“Possibly. We need to get round to them pronto.” With that, Craddock cleaned his plate with the rest of his fried slice and stood up. “Come on, lad. We’ve work to do.”
“But I’ve only just sat down,” sighed Rathbone. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
“That’s your lookout,” muttered Craddock unsympathetically. “You can eat that apple on the way. The salad looks revolting anyway. I wouldn’t feed it to a rabbit.”
Grabbing his apple, Rathbone followed his boss out to the old Ford, and hopped in beside him. They were outside the door of Appleby Cottage ten minutes later. “Now,” said Craddock, grinding the gears as he skidded to a halt. “Let’s see what these two old biddies have to say for themselves.
Craddock rang the rusty bell hanging by the front door of Appleby Cottage. It clanged hollowly as he and Rathbone waited. The place looked neglected, half hidden between two larger, more prepossessing properties. The rose bushes that had once bloomed so spectacularly in the front garden had long since died. Hallows Mead Crescent was a much sought-after location, and the residents themselves were proud of their little community. They kept their houses and gardens in immaculate condition, so it was fortunate that the Rowans’ cottage could hardly be seen from the road.
After a few moments, the door creaked open about two inches. “Who is it?” came a high-pitched, squeaky voice.
“Police, madam. Please open up.”
“Can I see your warrant card?”
Craddock shoved it through the tiny gap. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Come on now. We haven’t got all day.”
“Why are you here?”
Craddock raised his eyes to heaven in his exasperation. “We will tell you that when we are inside.”
“Is it about the murder?”
Rathbone spoke, aware his boss was losing his patience already. “Yes, madam. We are talking to everyone in the neighbourhood about it.”
“Well I didn’t do it,” came the reply.
“We aren’t saying you did, madam,” said Rathbone, looking at Craddock in amusement. “This is just a routine call.”
“My sister’s not home,” said the voice, as the door began to close.
Rathbone stuck his size ten shoe in between it and the door jamb. “We’ll only keep you a minute,” he said.
He felt the door press against his foot and was about to remove it when Craddock gave the door a push inwards and both men tumbled into the tiny passage. Vesna Rowan ran into the parlour and slammed the door.
“Go away!” she called out from behind it. “My sister’s not at home!”
The two policemen exchanged glances. There seemed no point in remaining as the woman was obviously frightened of them. They would get nowhere with her while she was in that state.
“Very well, madam,” said Craddock. “We don’t want to alarm you. We’ll come back when your sister is present. Can you tell us when she will return?”
“Don’t know,” came the unhelpful reply.
As they stood in the passage, they began to notice a cold draught of air coming from above them. They looked up and saw that the window on the landing was firmly shut.
“Come on, Rathbone,” said Craddock. “Let’s get out of here. It’s freezing.”
They beat a hasty retreat and sat in the car. “That was one strange lady,” observed the sergeant.
“That was one strange house,” echoed Craddock. “It was much colder in there than it is outside. It’s quite mild today. I wonder why it was so cold? The window wasn’t open.”
“I wondered that, too,” said Rathbone. “It was almost like …”
“Like what?”
Brian Rathbone fiddled with the glove compartment, opening it to reveal several empty crisp and cigarette packets which proceeded to scatter onto the none-too-clean floor of the car.
“Watch what you’re doing,” grumbled the inspector.
“Sorry, sir,” said Rathbone, gathering up the litter and shoving it all back into the glove compartment, which now wouldn’t shut properly.
“Leave it alone,” instructed Craddock crossly, as he turned the key in the ignition. “Like what?” he then repeated, as the car moved off.
“Like it was – I don’t know,” said Rathbone at last, watching the chief inspector’s reaction closely.
“L
ike it was haunted?”
“Well, no, not quite that. But there was definitely something not quite right in there.”
“You can say that again,” agreed Craddock. “Those two bear a great deal more investigation, that’s for sure. I only hope we can get more sense out of her sister.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Feathers was full of lunchtime drinkers when Bernard arrived just after one o’clock. He spied his friend seated in a booth near to the fire and made his way through the cheery crowd to join him.
“I’ve got you a sherry, Bernie,” said Robbie, passing it to him. “Medium dry. Busy in here today, what?”
“Thanks, Robbie. Cheers!” Bernard looked around. “Well it is Friday,” he observed, after his first sip. “We don’t usually come in here on a Friday. Bound to be more crowded, I suppose. They all seem very happy, don’t they?”
“Yes,” smiled Robbie, swigging his beer. “Nearly the end of the working week. How are you? Anything interesting to report?”
“Well, I’ve had a couple of rather interesting visits lately,” confided Bernard, taking another delicate sip of his sherry.
“You have? Do tell, old boy.”
“Well, first of all, one of the Rowan sisters – Elvira – called on me. She said it was because of the cat …”
“The cat?”
“Yes. You remember – you said you thought it might belong to them?”
“Ah, yes. So – was she very cross with you? Did she tear you off a strip and walk away with the moggy?”
“No, she didn’t. In fact, she wasn’t really bothered about the cat at all. It belongs to her sister, anyway. She said she didn’t like it herself.”
“So why did she come and see you then?”
“Ah, well, that’s just it. I think it was just an excuse. I think she wanted to ask me what I thought about the murder.”
“Hmm. I suppose it’s only natural, you being a vicar and all that.”
“Well, that’s what I thought at first, but I think it was more than that. She’s very worried about these ridiculous rumours going around.”
“What – about them being witches who’d sacrificed Helen in some sort of sick ritual, do you mean?”
Bernard looked down at his empty glass and twiddled with the stem. “Yes. She said it was affecting their livelihood.”
“Livelihood? How do you mean?”
“You know they sell herbal remedies?”
“Hmmph! Don’t hold with all that. Dangerous, in my opinion.”
Bernard shrugged. “Some people swear by them, Robbie.”
“Hmmph!”
“Yes, I can see it from your point of view – as a doctor. But – anyway. I told her I’d say something in Sunday’s sermon about rumour-mongering and the harm it can do. Nothing specific, you know.”
“Better not, Bernie. Your congregation would desert you in droves.” He laughed. “How about another?”
Robbie indicated his empty glass. Bernard consulted his watch, remembering that Mrs Harper would have his dinner on the table “promptly at two o’clock” as he had instructed.
“Yes, why not? My round. Could you do the honours, though? Don’t fancy forcing my way through that crowd. You’re bigger than me. Besides, they tend to feel obliged to pipe down when they see my collar, and I don’t want to spoil their fun.”
“No problem,” grinned Robbie, taking Bernard’s proffered ten shilling note. “Haven’t you got anything smaller, old chap?”
“Er, no, sorry.”
It took Robbie no time at all to grab the barmaid’s attention, who had taken a fancy to him the first time she served him. He was delighted to stay and chat, which meant Bernard had to wait nearly ten minutes for his second sherry.
“Pretty girl,” he observed as Robbie put the drinks down on the table. “You didn’t lose any time chatting her up.”
“Actually, she was the one doing the chatting up,” smiled Robbie, flicking back a lock of thick sandy hair from his forehead. “But she’s a fair piece, I have to say.”
“Yes. She is rather comely. I haven’t seen her before.”
“She only started last week. Her name’s Babs. Nicer to look at than Sid with his permanent scowl.”
Bernard could only agree.
“It’s about time we got a decent-looking barmaid. Sid’s been losing customers hand over fist lately. Anyway,” said Robbie, after taking a long draught of his beer, “you said you had had two interesting visits? You’ve only told me about the first one which, I have to say, wasn’t all that interesting.”
“If you say so,” said Bernard testily, reaching in his top pocket for his pipe. “Have you got a light?”
“Well?” Robbie handed him a box of matches. “What about this other visit?”
“I’ve got a good mind not to tell you now.” Bernard was almost sulking.
“Oh, come on, tell me if you’re going to.” Robbie was almost sulking too.
“Very well,” said Bernard, sucking on his pipe. The fragrant tobacco soon helped to smooth his ruffled feathers and he relaxed. “You know old Colonel Powell?”
“That old buzzard,” laughed Robbie. “What did he want with you? Never goes to church, as far as I’m aware. Likes a drop or two, so I believe.”
“Yes, that’s him. Mrs Aitch said he was a boozer. So, what he told me we can probably take with a large pinch of salt.”
“Right.” It was Robbie’s turn to light his pipe now. “Go on.”
“Well, I can’t really say anything as he told me in strict confidence. But, well, I’m sure he didn’t mean I couldn’t tell you…”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Craddock and Rathbone were feeling decidedly uneasy after their visit to Appleby Cottage, although neither of them could exactly say why. The cold air pervading the Rowan sisters’ little home had been inexplicable.
“Here we are,” announced Craddock as he screeched to a standstill outside Banks’, the butchers. “Let’s see what Percy has to say for himself, shall we?”
Percy Banks was the spitting image of his father, Harry. He was now in full charge of the family butchery business since his dad had retired due to ill health. He smiled at the two policemen as they entered the shop. Although they were in plain clothes, it was obvious they weren’t there to buy a leg of lamb or a pork chop. He had been expecting their visit and showed them into the back, leaving a youngster with a dripping nose to serve the next customer.
“He’s a bit slow, but willing,” smiled Percy, referring to his young shop assistant. “Now, I suppose you want me to tell you what I saw on Tuesday evening.”
“That’s right, Mr Banks. If you would,” said Craddock.
They were sitting in a small room surrounded by packing crates, the sunset just visible through the pocket-sized window.
“Well, all I know is I saw Helen Carstairs go into the Rowans’ cottage at about five o’clock that evening. Why she was there or how long she stayed, I’ve no idea. I was just passing the place on my way home.”
“Right,” said Craddock. “You’re certain this was the evening of the girl’s murder?”
Percy Banks scratched his head as if thinking deeply. “Absolutely,” he said after a moment. “It was last week, I remember, because I had shut the shop a little early to get home to get ready for my date with my girlfriend. We were going to see that new flick at the Roxy, with Glenn Ford.”
“The Big Heat?” asked Craddock. “Good film.”
“Yep,” agreed Percy. “But it was a bit gruesome, wasn’t it? When that horrible gangster threw acid in that pretty woman’s face, I had to look away. She was so attractive before that happened.”
“Yes, a stunning actress,” said Craddock. He had always been fond of Gloria Grahame, who seemed to be able to speak without moving her lips.
Rathbone thought it was about time he interrupted the film critics. “Aren’t we straying from the point a bit?”
Percy laughed. “Yes, we are, aren’t w
e? Anyway, that was definitely last Tuesday we saw the film and that was why I was early going home. I know it was the same evening I saw Helen go into the Rowans’ as I remember thinking about the film as I watched her go in.”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” said Craddock, looking puzzled.
“Sorry, it’s just that I had seen the stills of the film outside the picture house and Helen reminded me a bit of the actress I’d seen in those stills.”
“Ah, Gloria Grahame, you mean?”
“Is that her name? Well, then. Yes.”
“Right,” said Craddock. “Let me get this right. Have you got your notebook, Rathbone?”
Rathbone had opened it to a clean page and licked the nib of his pencil, waiting to write down anything useful.
“You saw Helen Carstairs enter Appleby Cottage in Hallows Mead Crescent at about five o’clock last Tuesday evening. That would be the 20th.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know these Rowan sisters at all? Have you ever had any dealings with them?”
Percy looked serious for a moment. “Do I know the Rowans?” He seemed to be hedging.
“Yes,” sighed the chief inspector impatiently. “Do you?”
“Well, not very well myself. But my dad used to go out with the younger one – Vesna – about thirty years ago. The older one, Elvira, is a customer of ours. That’s all I know about her.”
Craddock was interested now. “Ah, your father knew Vesna Rowan? Obviously, fairly well if he was dating her.”
“Well, yes. They were engaged at one time.”
“Engaged? So, what happened? I will probably need to speak to your father about her.”
Percy looked worried now. “I’d rather you didn’t bother him, Inspector. You see, he’s not in the best of health, ever since …”
“Ever since what?”
“Ever since he fell in the canal that time. It was all Vesna Rowan’s fault.”
“What? Do you mean she pushed him in?”
“Not herself, no. But her fiancé did, although Dad says he was very drunk at the time and didn’t remember exactly what happened.”